Drunk on kitten love, I clean the kitchen on Fridays.
It's an act of charity, doing what's expected of me.
Wiping down the countertops, I get locked in on the walls of the kitchen.
I stare at the blue paint - just a little too long. The old walls that were painted in the summer have a hold of me.
I lick my hand and start cleaning up smudges with my thumb.
How could these fresh things get rotten so quickly?
How come all the good things in this house get smudged so easily?
It starts to get to me.
I start to figure out a little too much... I brush it off and take a rest on the new couches that I love.
Couches I've been asking for since I was a kid. Couches big enough to make my cats feel like Gods.
Soft enough to make me feel like one too.
I get comfortable. I feel love.
"Home is where the heart is,
home is where the heart is,
home is where the heart is,"
echoes in my chest.
"I know," I whisper to my cat.
"I know." "I love it too."
I peek back behind me and catch a glimpse of the sea blue paint that engulfs the dining room now.
It's a gorgeous shade, but it doesn't quite match the kitchen.
I smiled and laughed, "A lot of things in these houses don't fit together nicely, do they?"
And it's true.
Not a lot of things around here make sense.
But the single, bought at a garage sale painting that's been hanging on the bathroom wall for a decade does.
The cat sitting comfortably on my lap does.
The sound of laughter hitting the walls after bad days does. The old swing out back still screeching and screaming at night makes more sense than anything or anyone.
No one can notice anymore - where these walls were painted with your fist.
But I do. I sigh.
Turns out covering things doesn't always make them better. Painting the walls blue didn't make my memory dissipate. Painting the walls blue didn't make the hurt go away.
My love died in the walls of this house.
In cracks and falling drywall.
And wiping down countertops still makes the screams of spiteful children echo in me. Which is why I take so many nights off.
I am a reflection of that blue paint. Pretty on the outside. Not quite right. Something no one wants to talk about.
Filled with love, but smudged all over.
And cracking from the inside out.