My father was a painter of sorts.
An artist of purples and blues
Dipped in the twilight palette
Of my mother’s bruises.
He was an enthusiast
Of Marlboro Red cigarettes
Chilled Corona gold
And Swisher Sweet
Cherry blossom browns.
He was midnight cruel
With hues of soul-frozen cold
He was a gambling addiction
Of innocence sold.
He was every hurtful word
That his father ever said
A history of violence
A documentary of red.
He was every scream
His mother made
Before the night
she left for good
He was the childhood
That died
And was never understood.
You see,
The man never cried.
As there was no more light inside.
And he just never learned
What to do
With all of that hurt…
So
He painted.
My father’s art gallery
Of generational pain
Self-blame
And toxic shame
Lives inside of me now
Dwelling dutifully
In the divots
Of my deepest darkness
Seasoning my sadness
With hints of uncontrollable madness
But I’m selling off
These family portraits
As poems.
I’m turning hate
Into love
Pain
Into kindness
Tears
Into laughter.
And I don’t hate you
Anymore
I won’t hate you
Anymore
Because there’s already
enough hate
In the world
It ends with me.