little painter

I'll write through this pain
the one of my abdomen
the one of my stomach
a great ache, a great emptiness

but really, too full
engorged on the world
bloated and gluttonous
disgusted

I wear this pain like a badge
this exhaustion like a medal
'the sick one, the sick one'
the mysterious pale child behind the curtain
frail bones, little painter

little artist loved you
bathes in green tea, bath tubs full of
herbs
minerals in her eyes
shimmering,
a fool's gold

hair shone like silver springs
moon child, soft voice
tender touch

he accessed the earth
and brought the pieces to my bedside
formalities between us,
impossibly hard and impossibly long
you forget me

you bury me before my last breath
so now where do I exist?