I felt empty.
Like a blank canvas,
Waiting for a stray paintbrush to brush color on me.
Not just any color.
Red.
A deep crimson red.
I had my paintbrush in my hand.
A sharp brush,
Waiting to paint crimson in its wake.
I laid it on my canvas,
And began my painting.
1,
2,
5,
8,
16.
By the time I finished,
The canvas was dark red.
It's true when they say painting relieves pain.
On my canvas,
Was a beautiful deep red heart,
That was broken into pieces.
Just like mine.
-An lonely, pained artist
