Loneliness smells like wet paint
bitter sharp
and comfortably toxic.
Pigmented tragedy stings my nose,
brimming my eyes with tears.
The more I inhale
the fainter I feel,
dizzy with sadness
and wildly confused.
Liquid isolation
stains my walls
Egyptian blue,
thick abandonment
coating my insides.
This dense colour
that wears my body
shall dry out and harden,
like the tears I wore before,
leaving me a cracked canvas.
I shall cover my mass with a new colour
and fill the cavities of my past self.

pain[t] is not permanent.