I heard the whisper.

I heard the voices in my head, spinning circles, clasping hands,

Singing ring around the rosy until I fell down on the cold floor once again
In a palette of red paint.

The artist wasn’t quite finished yet with this masterpiece.

But I listen as his voice rises higher and higher with excitement and his words start to beat their tiny wings, and he cries

This represents the healing that we can no longer reach on our own.

This represents the pills we have to be given so we can learn to quit reaching for them when times get too tough.

This represents the itchy white hospital gowns hiding her fragile body so she can learn to be comfortable in her skin.

This represents hope so high that I can’t see it anymore.

And he breaks the legs of his canvas in a flurry of hatred for the beauty he created,

Because it will never be felt by the critics who rate this pain on a scale from 1 to 10.

And all you’ve been fighting for doesn’t mean a thing

When she peers on tiptoes into the mirror and sees

Fingertips quick to pull triggers.

And rose-petal bones start to wither.

And her lower lip tries not to quiver

When the tears get too heavy.

But she lets them fall like paint off a brush and they crash on the tiles.

She lets the floor crack under her feet while praying to god to send her to hell

Just so she can feel the flames.
So she can feel the smoke charring her lungs,
And she rots from the inside out.

He watches, the paintbrush dancing in his hand like her war torn desert palms and
They pull their triggers.

She paints the wall with her sadness and he frames it to sell
To the critics who carry the scales that killed her.