each brush stroke
laid my body bare,
fleshed out in foxhair,
acrylic pulsepoints,
as motionless as humid air.

there was no color
that could fix the shallow breathing,
there was no texture to the stillness of my soul.
in the sweeps of paint
there was depth and breadth
but no volume to the voice in me.

titanium white painted my skin in sheets
and Prussian blue weaved veins for me,
but there is no palette for misery.

04/05/2012

Posted on 04/06/2012
Copyright © 2024 Vikki Owens