Smudge

Smudge

On my ceiling is an unknown smudge

I wonder vaguely how it came to be

I only see it in my darkest hours

And somehow know that it’s apart of me.

Is it a cobweb, or is it a crack?

Will the ceiling cave in where I lie?

It seems snake across the blank expanse…

I find myself not minding if I die.

Shoulders sometimes block it from my view.

The skin has three big freckles in a row.

When I can’t see my smudge, I watch those dots.

They’re just like frogs, all leaping to and fro.

The shoulders leave; my smudge returns to me.

My face is glazed with sweat and stained with pain.

I gaze up at the ceiling and I smile

When I realise it’s the reason I’m still sane.

But then this morning, Mother cleans it off.

I stare in anguish at the pristine white.

She does not know what she has done to me.

I’ve lost that friend who helped me brave the night.

The ceiling’s cold and empty, like my heart.

I miss that smudge so badly I could cry.

Father comes to give my goodnight kiss.

He leans down low; three freckles dot my eyes.