I'm writing this out of nowhere
out of a lemon
with nothing but thick skin and seeds
that will never grow
out of its garbage-can-home.

There's nothing inside of me
too much on me
too many things I lose from my heart
and not enough I lose from my body

She's sick she's lying she's home
I'll hide the painting
in a closet
in hopes that
every time I come across it
I will be re-impressed with myself.

I will never again
paint something like that.
So much effort
only to be forgotten when eyes are off it
I never felt anything when I was painting it anyway.

It means nothing to you and me.