because I want you to remember
how I was once kind of beautiful
I will paint you pictures
and etch on glass
who I want to be
once this sickness of the year
leaves my poison breath
I so infected you with.
Oils in blue black dripping rain from my fingertips.
A house in the forest with one light on.
A scratched eye with a glint to tease
beneath long, lovely lashes.
I show you palette after palette
the mix I’m desperate at–where’s the right colors,
how would you like it, how am I sense?
I urge you from the door with blank canvases,
and I’m not one for persuasion.
Your hidden eye, your hidden pity
and goodbye. I paint for myself.