It gets me angry
to think of the one hundred and eighty degrees.
How can a scene change so much in a week?
I showed everyone my painting
just to have it crack and flake in the making.
I haven’t tried restoring it
and I certainly haven’t boasted about it,
yet it still haunts me like Dorian Grey.
I hate how that day
still provokes so many emotions,
while everything in between is a haze.
It might be
because it’s still damaged in my attic,
waiting to be retouched,
but I remain static.
Who knows when I’ll get around to that.
I can’t have it.
In the meantime,
I just hate how angry that image makes me.
It’ll just keep fading.