I always hated the white walls,
their silence pressing down like fog.
So I dipped a brush in rebellion,
drenched the emptiness in bright red.
At first, it felt like a drumbeat,
like fire had replaced my lungs.
The color screamed when I couldn’t,
spilled chaos where I craved control.
But soon, the noise turned unbearable,
each glance like a fist to my chest.
I wanted to claw at the walls,
peel the crimson off with my nails.
Homicide danced in my clenched fists.
Suicide whispered softly at night.
Until I found myself, a shaking bird,
perched on the edge of a couch.
The therapist’s calm voice pressed gently,
like waves polishing a sharp-edged stone.
She told me, \"Let\'s paint the sky here.\"
and handed me a pastel brush,
Blue now spills soft across my bedroom.
The ceiling stretches quiet as an exhale.
It’s therapy soaking into every corner,
a balm stitching jagged edges closed.