“Maybe Olive?”
My skin has always been a canvas for someone else’s violence and frustration. Bruises only highlight the depth of skill from hangers, brushes, belts, hands, and fists. Each leave a color wheel on my flesh.  Later I never shied away from pain. Inflicting patterns of geometric shapes on my wrists, indicates a lack of creativity. All it ever got me was red and red and red. I poured the color into my vision and when my hands shook while enduring the pain, I felt red acrylic paint singing in my veins. It paved the path to grey. Now charcoals shade in color on cheeks. No fingers mold the structure of my body. I become shapeless, dirtying the mouths that try to breathe life into a sculpture destined to collapse. Shoddy past craftsmanship finally bringing the imperfections to light. The vicious clay dries and cracks, dusting and crumbling. Idle as it wait for a new artist to make it whole or get rid of the project completely. Make room for a fresh canvas, maybe then I’ll remember the hue of my own skin.