Pitted

I pull the faces from the wall,

the smiling girls, the men in bars.

They leave behind a jagged crawl

of tiny, brown, and pitted scars.

This landscape of the years we lost

is thick with holes and splintered grain.

I count the pins and count the cost

of keeping up the old facade of pain.

A single staple, bent and gray,

is buried deep within the wood.

I try to pry the thing away

but it stays stuck, as if it should.

I’ll pin the electric bill right here,

over the spot where your eyes used to be.

The paper is white and the numbers are clear.

It’s the only thing left that’s looking at me.