Write about peeling paint.

Slivers

The shed still stands.
I know because I pass it
on my way home from work.
Every.
Single.
Day.
The paint has peeled and
lays tattered, like skin
that was torn far too
young.
Though my memory sees
this place as a giant
black void, the space
between where it rests
and the highway makes
it look small enough that
it may fit in the palm
of my hand.
With the power of a
clenched fist, I could
completely destroy it.
Certainly there’d be
slivers that would
penetrate my skin, though
this kind of penetration
I could deal with.
And maybe I could finally
live.

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