I will never be able to look at red paint the same way after that night

Okay story time. This may be triggering so don't say I didn't warn you. So one night after I threw away my blade I was falling and I wanted to cut. But as I didn't have a blade I couldn't so I grabbed a tube of red water color paint and I sorta faded out and when I came back I had red paint all over my arms and legs. With words painted on in black that read "if you knew how broken I was would you still love me?". So yeah that's my story.

An artist paints a masterpiece.
Uses colour to represent intention and desire.
A highly detailed piece of art becomes his centrepiece,
his everything.

Occasionally he drops colour all around him.
Every colour at his disposal becomes mixed and splattered.

What has been used to create you is now the substance of new imagery;
A new art piece created on the floor called:
'A representation of my feelings for you'.

She covered me in paint.
Filling me with her outlook.
Standing there drenched we both laughed.
Her hands covered in acrylic.
She fed me apple sauce browns and pepperoni reds.
Banana cream tans as well as blueberry blues.
Her thoughts covered me in taste.
Hands warm to the touch.
Covered in paint I was identical to all her favorite things.
I became the table which she viewed the world.
Splashed in infatuation

the first time i saw her stretch marks i
saw beauty as a landscape formed,
lightning collapsed on her earth
captured by my lavender mind
i painted cosmic energy on
her body, oil on canvas ii
created a portrait my
fingertip a brush as
i drew a valley of
a thousand hills
on her fragile
temple.

He tells me that cliche again about van gogh and his yellow paint. He says i’m an artist like that. i’ll find my yellow paint. my salvation. how i scoop out hope.
i want to tell him i already have. the ugly things i shove inside myself trying to find happiness even if it kills me. my yellow paint has been entire cakes, has been sixteen shots, has been strangers i kissed and forgot, has been eating too healthy, has been eating nothing at all, has been dark nights i swaddled myself in, has been speeding on black ice, has been everything i could think of that would make me feel anything at all for once in my life. i wonder if i die like this they’ll say it was beautiful. they’ll talk about the poet who used the sharpest things in her life to carve the joy out of herself - they’ll say, oh, she knew it was toxic but she wanted to put the happiness inside of her again. she ate only captain crunch because it reminded her of her childhood, isn’t that so cute? well obviously it’s sad she’s dead but how romantic is it that she loved birds and flowers and once debated eating poison. how will they paint my ending. she unbuckled herself on highways because she wanted to be one with the sky. she refused to look before crossing the road because she believed in fate. she was a wonderful girl and will be missed while we wear socks with her face on them. van gogh ate yellow paint. we say he was trying to put the good back into him. but i’ve slammed myself against the ground trying to get death to stick. i know what self harm is when i see it.

Splattered on the wall
Lay layers of lusterless paint
That crawl under your skin small
bumps with a faint taint
of a soft yellow haul
that drags you down to a feint
filled with reality