\"Is he a mistake?\" asks the painter.
The question echoes
through the empty gallery of his skull,
where every thought hangs
like a portrait no one came to see.
Years ago,
someone planted doubts in his soul.
They were only seeds then.
Harmless.
Invisible.
No one noticed
the roses blooming beneath his ribs.
Until the roses became trees.
Until the trees learned
how to drink from his veins.
They have borne their fruit now.
Heavy.
Beautiful.
Poisonous.
The largest fruit
is the doubt of whether he was ever meant
to live at all.
The painter plucks it
without hesitation.
It tastes strangely familiar.
Like every apology
he was never owed.
Like every silence
that answered his cries.
Like home.
Now he is full.
Full of guilt
for occupying space.
Full of shame
for stealing air
from someone who might have deserved it more.
He no longer paints
to create beauty.
He paints
to prove he once existed.
But every colour
looks borrowed.
Every canvas
feels stolen.
Every masterpiece
becomes another confession
that he cannot forgive himself for making.
The poor painter doubts every kindness.
A compliment
sounds rehearsed.
An embrace
feels like pity.
\"I love you\"
becomes a sentence
he spends years trying to disprove.
Perhaps one day
someone will arrive
with an axe
strong enough to fell the forest
that has rooted itself
inside his chest.
Perhaps they will plant flowers instead.
Flowers without thorns.
Flowers that do not feed
on grief.
Flowers that bloom
without asking for blood.
But hope
is a flower
the painter has never learned to keep alive.
He was the last child
his family never expected.
Perhaps...
No.
Certainly.
A single night of desire
became a lifetime
searching for a reason
to have been born.
Since then,
he has lived
like an apology
that never reaches the person
it was written for.
Every morning
he wakes
only because the night
forgot to keep him.
Every evening
he thanks the darkness
for asking nothing of him.
The mirrors
have grown tired
of remembering his face.
Even his shadow
sometimes leaves
before he does.
And the trees—
God,
the trees have grown so tall
they scrape the heavens,
yet heaven has never answered.
Their roots
coil around his heart
until it beats
not from hope
but from habit.
Birds no longer build nests
in their branches.
Only crows.
Only silence.
Only the weight
of another season
he never believed
he would survive.
Still he paints.
Because if he stops,
there will be nothing left
to prove
that someone once stood here,
holding a brush
with trembling hands,
trying,
with the last light he possessed,
to paint himself
into a world
that had already decided
to paint over him.