the sky was stained purple and green- ghastly hues- leaving me with a very unclean feeling unfurling on my palms. I wanted to wash it away- the colors were becoming one now (the kind of mysterious brown mothers pulled their children from peering at on mown lawns)- and have a canvas pure as the first hour snow falls over weary towns.
it was harder than I thought it would be. it involved scrubbing away the lights when aiming for the darks; too much muddled together to pull apart the best, beautiful parts, too much of a mess I should’ve noticed earlier when I picked up my paintbrush and decided to spread my existence out and out and out- too much to pull back now, anyways. too much but I don’t regret anything for I pulled out my soul and spun my paintbrush around in it collecting deep pigmented blood stains and tear drops and soft hugs.
only then did I begin to understand my twisted self- when brush touched world.