I am a swipe of coarse paint
smudged and softened
by curious fingertips
that shade and shape me
and hang me helplessly
on a wall

I am the color of the sky
when  flurries of snow
sprinkle the streets
with no regards
to the shoulder-racking shivers
they bring along

I am a dusty book
in the corner of the library
with a broken spine
and I lay torn and tattered
from too much use
or perhaps too little

I am the empty shell
of a person
who has been drained
of their butterflies
and want nothing more
than to feel something
rather than an abundance
of nothing
and nothing at all