black and red paint has stained the skin of my arms
one could call them proof of what’s happened
or perhaps a constellation
a representation or a manifestation
of what’s got my mind running too fast for my body to keep up
distraction is momentary and the clouds always come back
night time
darkness
the dinner table with a dish laid out
a pressure on my chest or an illusion of your eyes and smile
are you here?
where have you gone?

tomorrow I’ll clean up and the paint lining my arms will wash out
maybe it left a mark
I know myself and I know I always doubt
I doubt in myself and the interest of people around me
perhaps I’m the embodiment of delusion as I portray myself as artsy
truth is I probably can’t paint for **** and I only follow the lines
I write poems but they’re not concise
I patch up the hole in my jeans the same way I patch up myself
it’s messily done and the seams will tear apart
kind of like my heart

calling out for you seems impossible
I don’t know if it’s you or me that’s locked away
at this point I’d submit and pray
to an all godly power or a made up portrait of a saviour
I know it’s not for me
is eternal longing my life sentence?
will the paint ever wash out?
my punishment is set
do I have the right to complain?

please let me know you’re safe