Losing Ground

"Art requires discipline.

You said that. I believed you, imagined you grim faced, brow furrowed, paint on your knuckles.

"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom, you said.

As the sun came up after another night speeding and playing records, I wanted to ask you what you'd learned. When you suggested the squat, and leaving college so you could work on your paintings, my heart fluttered in my chest.

I didn't like the squat much. I was always cold, jumper over jumper. Smells frightened me. At night, I heard crying, lying on our mattress next to you as you smoked.

The days between giros were empty. I tried to leave you alone to paint. Your canvasses were smaller, less colourful, less detailed. I was sick all the time.

Drink kept us warm. Someone stole our books and records and we didn't replace them.

"We've got to be practical, you said.

When I told you I was pregnant, you didn't look up from the needle in your arm.

"Producing anything of value is a race against yourself, you'd said once.

I hated you when you stopped painting.

That year, we lost too much ground to ever make up.