There is more paint on my hands
Than my canvas,
Which is blessed with an image
Of my dog's ****, and I love it.

There is a small stain
Of yellow splattered memory
From when I knocked over
The paint tube for the 17th time,
And no one yells. I love it.

It is a Friday night at 24,
My first night alone in my apartment.
All of my friends are drinking,
Or spending time with their partners,
But I am here, drinking wine out the bottle,
Sneaking leftovers out the fridge with my bare hands,
Spilling paint all over my ******* self,
Painting a silly doggy ****,
And for once
I am happy
Alone.