The paint is peeling off the walls of this room that we share.
You stand by a bad spot next to the window, painting over it
While I sit on the bed and point out new bald patches "- behind the radiator -
Next to the fridge."
You dutifully keep painting.
"-above the door - "
I absently chip at the edges with my hands and watch you,
Busy with brushes, tape, and rollers.
Paint shards cut me under my fingernails.
I wonder about the age of this house and the lead content of this paint.
You start patching a spot in the corner, near the ceiling.
Cracks run all along the walls, away from the brushes and rollers.
Maybe if we were to hang some posters or tapestries, or something? Anything really.
Just so you can set down your brushes, so I can stop stirring the stick around in the can,
Stop pointing out the blemishes, stop pulling at the paint shards
And finally let my fingers heal.