sometimes she daydreams about life the way i do about death. it's ironic, i know: black and white aren't meant to be grey and the rumbling hum of expletives digging into mauve lips pass through like desaturated light to translucent statures. it makes everything seem sweeter than it looks. she thinks the ache feels lukewarm, just like those half-hearted smiles she gives out like presents on a holiday, and she may be right. pain is not cold, it covers your entire heart with microwaved fingers, leaving burn marks that leave chars and ashes. snaps the purple heartstrings and clumsily tries to mend it.

(i love you because you're corporeal, she murmurs, you keep me sane)

she's spider-webbed, sung gossamer and silk while her bar lines drip with ink. and she seems moonstruck—because of me she says and blooms throughout my epiphanies. fancies herself a ghost, a wisp, something ethereal that lingers on my lips like a kiss. and she lingers, oh she does. toppling from the skies and collapsing into my rib-cage, she stays, blushing rose-like and thriving. velvet and constellations of blood clots patter against her skin. it blooms like she blooms, a paint splattered canvas meant for all to see.

For some
it is a canvas –
A daily painting
Of one’s life.

Little moments
From the past
Come flitting in my mind
Like feathers
Or flower petals
Or leaves in the breeze
They come, they dance
And flit away
From the white screen
Of my mind

I see, I know, I smile
This too shall pass

The eternal canvas of Emptiness
Freedom
Peace
Silence
Alone remains
Always has been
and
always will

Blank canvas
                       Empty
                                 Flat
                                       White
                                                  But,
                                             Potential

INT - A DARK TEENAGE BEDROOM - SUMMER - NIGHT

THE WHOLE WORLD BERATES IN UPON THIS ROOM. It is deafening and, perhaps, imaginary.

   Sits Lonely A Teen / Either Gender / Unclothed

          TEEN
    (a mental stream)

Showing off blood
I call out a name
It feigns at being blameless
(a practice quite heartless)
I call out a name
Yet the response is similar
It fades out of marking
Kettle sounds ;
the window
beyond; night
beyond; weather
the pattern ;
no progress
I tone out a name
Yet
I am alone
On this mattress
Subject and
Canvas

I want to cut this
white
blank
canvas,
But I am too fearful of damaging the potential.
There are many things to do with this canvas.
I don't have to ruin it.
But I feel the need to.

and at that moment I gazed up; all I saw
was darkness and emptiness and a non-dimensional horizon.
it was an empty canvas with the exception
of entirely black.
but all of a sudden, little specks appeared,
almost like the moon's reflection on dark, salty water.
rippling waves on the black fickle surface like
the twinkling stars that night.
my ignorant eyes looking at the
faint light reflected on your face.
and that was the sky
I never saw again.