Paint me as a painkiller – being skinny all of my life, a paint thinner;
a silent dreamer, for my lips pressed to a sleepless night. Unmoved
before  the few stars, message me later — to recall all of the best
compliments I made with a WhatsApp star. And how the galaxy spins
on notifications I never read, while the silence of pain sounds like typing.
A message long sent...

Goliaths clad in gravity; the naked eye undresses its own reflection —
I see too much of myself to believe in it. A new thirst rises just to
extinguish others, love poured into a cup made of doubts. I drink,
even when it cracks.

Then again, my pores kind of ****; they breathe in ghosts of what I
touch, and leak the ache of what I hide. I’m stuck competing over
ill-fitting pieces of peace, trying to make a masterpiece out of
what won’t stay together.

Broken kisses, fragile as glass — no wonder they cut. Every affection
a mirror shattered to fit my face. Here, the stars are all black holes,
a spiralling ballet of my art — every orbit a repetition, every stroke
of light a bruise.

I am the medicine and the mistake, dieting on feeling, searching for
colour through the thinning paint. A painkiller swallowing his own
relief — but a body dissolving to heal; choked up while I’m
swallowing relief.