as i'm laying down tonight i think of how exhausting it is to wash you off my fingers even if it's not like i ever get to hold your hand or touch you, for that matter. but everynight i have to wash your essence off my fingers like trying to get rid of gasoline but always ending up setting myself aflame. and that despite knowing how dangerous and hazardous that **** could be you just couldn't stop because you love the smell of gasoline that fills up your lungs like pumps of adrenaline right before the stench of your own burning flesh chokes you to death. most nights, i wash you off like paint. you can tell that i'm trying to forget what i bled after your face appeared on the plain canvass when my hand automatically reaches up and perfectly colors your lips, and i couldn't help but resemble them to pastel pink petals of the roses growing in royal gardens and i know i'm fooling everyone making them believe that such expertise is achieved because your bottom lip have felt my gentle stroke when i don't even know how your lips would feel when they quiver under a curious and longing touch. so i watch the colors spiral down the drain. i watch my hands brush against each other so intensely, trying to scrub the paint gone even if it won't go away. even if the blood is clean. even if i look clean. how can loving you secretly be ever clean? i'm scared it will never go away. i am a painter in my own sense, capturing a glimpse of something so intoxicating and aesthetically forbidden then turning it into something tangible. this is how painters show that their hearts collapse with just a name with just a glance not meant for their way. and they paint what little of the hope that shouldn't have been there in the first place and every night. every single night they would aim tirelessly to turn it into something they could allow. something that could exist not only in my head. something that i can call mine even if you don't know that i am yours and i knew this because your face have begun to fill every blank wall in my ******* house and i wonder how it is possible to fall in love with someone the whole world believes you shouldn't. they say that when we turn our hands into fists it is the size of our hearts. and sometimes after the long hours of painting i wash my paint-stained hands clean of an abstract myriad of yellow and blue and black and red. red for blood. red for love. red for fire. i wash my paint-stained hands turning them into fists so maybe, just maybe it will be the same as getting rid of the colors off my young broken heart. colors for you. yet i always end up washing them off with ******* gasoline. and you still dare to call me 'smart'
i am an arsonist and a painter. i burned while i burst into colors. and you...you were the one that blurred my distinction between the two.