How she purifies the grey water
stagnating in my heart like a pond
or a heap of wet debris,
I still don't know;
yet each time I see her
she is a combustible gas,
her blue tongue touched the air
swirling, strumming the burner.

But it’s all different when I get home,
the stink of the sink in my kitchen,
rotten roses from last year’s Valentine's,
crumbs of chips and fish on my bed,
dusty and cobwebbed corners,
cracked and dry wings of cockroaches, 
the meal of murdered mosquitoes,
dead rats lying on the floor
and rumpled clothes on the sofa.

For a decade, I tried to change
the colour of my smile,
perhaps to be able to remember
when things get messy,
and I am not able to remember myself.
My mother did her best,
considering the circumstances,
in which I cannot focus
on what is useful and agreeable,
so I gave up trying.
Now I am me, a house of chaos,
a staircase just for the exit.