she was an artist.
there was no other glow to compare to the beauty she saw, it reflected onto her skin and into her pale sunken eyes. the night is a dull and wonderless place. she watched other artists in confusion, wondering why they painted with ashes and blood onto an empty canvas. she painted with white onto black and into stars made of glass that sprang from darkness.
but she was no artist.
the lines spilling from her hands to her feet made a trace back to her heart and tangled her hair with frustration and breathless lungs. there was no longer room for a paintbrush. there was no longer room for air. the canvas was born empty. the stars were born without light. now evening towers above her, aching goodnight.