Frankensteins.

The walls, though freshly painted, still
hold the smell of chemicals.
And they should.

By covering these walls in white, someone attempted
to relieve an artist of her duty,
her obligation to create.
The painter ushered in new technology
and welcomed it like a newborn, passing out cigars
in his triumph.

But the scent clings tightly to the air
with a strong, bald fist.
Acidic and salty, slightly sour like tears.
Metallic like blood.

And I remember the contradicting dense and freeing
feelings of creating, of being
holed up inside myself, bearing my soul to these
four brick walls
and the
zaps of light flashing here, flashing there,
brightly exposing me to a dark world
of horror and hope,
me to myself and to my own
little Frankensteins.