Today I ate       out of griefs unforgiving hand

And I thanked him         for all the crumbs,

It tasted so much         like what I had for lunch

Everyday for a         few years now,

He wonders how         I haven't gotten sick of it yet;

I tell him it reminds me         of my Mothers cooking 

On a Sunday afternoon             Microwaved meals and 

Bruised knees over the counter;                  Fathers dirty dishes 

Climbing up the walls                   Smoking slims in his green bathroom;

Faux smiles and untied shoelaces                   Toothbrush in my backpack:

Grandmas leftovers on my lips                  Leaves a residue on your skin;

I try not to stain,                  Be like watercolor, rinse off in the rain

It's hard to pretend not to be             All the things you grew up 

Being;