I crave the sensation of steel through flesh. Nothing can feel more true. Thin chiseled strokes, roses bloom fresh, The artist paints with the purest of hues.
The easel, the lighting, my ritual prepared; I lay out the canvas: naked and bare. Knifing through fibers, I begin to forget; On my palette one color, imperfect regret.
Originally published in Here It Goes, by Alex Hanna