I used the hues chosen from the back of the shelf in an art store, an unclean paintbrush that could hardly even catch-hold of the tints, but at least it spread the colours. The patches on my skin are yet to be merged into one being; the slightly red highlights yet to melt into my tissues. Long eyelashes that are supposed to keep the dancing dust out of my eye, And yet I feel my pupils drowning, I still do not know why. The tips of my earlobes are not as pointy as they used to be, In my head at least. My hair now the brown I craved as a child, But it no longer falls gracefully over my shoulders, Or spirals downward close to the curve of my neck just to make my dry, white lips curl in a large shard of glass. I see numbers when I open my glass eyes (They do not flutter anymore) As if they are dice, I write lies all over my body In hope that someday it will absorb them, And my deceits towards myself will become the truth, Oozing out of my mind like golden ichor. But eventually the blood will run out, And I, too, shall fall to my knees; But not yet, Not when I see my faults, Not when I can still cry without wiping saltwater from off my cheek; Not when I can hold myself and falsely convince that pulsing lump in its natural cage that everything will be alright; That I might still roll a six on those dice and open the translucent curtains to a place I have always wished to go. There is a room somewhere here, where there is kept a large portrait. It is said to be strangely beautiful. As if it shouldn't be, But it is. I do not know what the painting holds, Nor do I know what my red fist holds; I do know however, That within that frame, There are a few brushstrokes that have been laid down on the white sheet by a softer brush than mine.
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