a really depressing poem that doesn't apply to my life

Baby's Room

I used to like the smell of paint.

Chemical ribbons of scent would curl around my nose

and delicately thread their way up to my skull-

sending me spinning.

Now it's just a vat of color sloshed upon a wall.

Remember when we painted its room?

The green walls mimicked the bud growing

inside of me, waiting to blossom.

As we rolled and brushed

the cold hue somehow traveled to my hands

revealing the roadmap of twisting curves and crevices that I had been born with.

Something I had always took for granted, something it would never see.

The walls now rest there like a tombstone
amidst a field of stagnant grass.

Their lifeless hum vibrates down our hallway.

I never liked the smell of paint.