Smoke in the Air – A Poem

“I still have that piece you gave me. You can have it back.”

It’s like I can see the words

floating in the air in front of me.

“I put your painting with the rest of the give away pile.”

I think of the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland,

how the words rushed towards her,

sent through the air like projectiles.

I’m reeling from the gut punch,

the metaphorical slap in the face.

Every piece of writing or painting I do

has a piece of me within it.

If you look very carefully,

you can see the bit of my spirit

imbibed within the ink or the paint

shining outward for all to see.

“Your art didn’t fit my aesthetic, so I put it in the basement.”

I tell them that I’m insulted and offended.

I picture my art,

so colouful and bright

hiding in the dark like I had to

for most of my life.

“I don’t understand why you’re upset over this.”

I try to tell them why,

that it wasn’t just art to me,

that I had given them a part of me,

and that part of me was meant for them

to fill their home with light.

“I think you’re projecting your anger onto me because you’re angry about something else.”

I stare at the word cloud

as the consonants and vowels take shape

above my head and I do

the only thing that I can think of doing.

I wave my hands in the air to clear the smoke

before the letters can

choke me and I start to believe

their words.