in my room the sun is almost setting,
flushing watercolors up against the sky.
stained with dark red, unnecessary brushstrokes —
the canvas’s staying blank,
transparent in its innocence
and
ignorance,
and
pierced right through,
done nothing wrong.
the artist is the one to blame.
who in his fury came
and ripped apart what felt like soul,
the vagueness of a home.
keep chasing —
the canvas’s staring blank
as shadows in my room grow bigger.
[is it some sand i’m tasting on my tongue?
or is it what a victory feels like?]