I am reminded of a blank space
when I painted my heart
white.
Pure and empty.

I am reminded of the way it felt
when the chemicals and my blood
intermixed until the fluid that bled
from paper-cuts and scraped knees
was a rosy pink.
When my insides burned
and I wished
more than anything
that one day I might bleed red again.

But each day when I woke up
I'd lather the slippery blackened *****
in white.
And bleed pink
and anyone who talked to me
would say that my world was so *pretty.

"She bleeds pink," what a rosy life to lead.

And I begged myself to believe them
nod, smile
and buy more paint.

After many years
and blood so soft, it drunk like white wine
I looked to the house I'd built around me.
Walls built of paint cans
labels worn to light scuffs of black.

And looked to the floors where
the paint had splattered
white tears that marked the floor so clearly.

So, I walked the trails I always walked
but this time watched the ground.

roads
painted white
scattered, meekly, with dirt and green and life.

And I realized I had no where to hide.
I packed away my paint brushes
and let in all of the words
that sometimes settled like knives
Embedded deep in flesh
until the white and rosy blood
that left me
pale

began to change
And though my blood
was darker
and thinner
and smelled more strongly of iron
than solvent paint fumes.

I finally stopped painting,
I recycled the cans,
and gave myself new purpose.