No matter what I can dress myself
Or put on makeup and do some hair.
Like a painter, the brush strokes hide
Mistakes and wrong interpretations
Even though it is his hand
Putting the paint to canvas.
Even on the days of struggle,
Where 2 minutes takes 2 hours
And no matter what the information
Slips through the cracks
Like a dutiful soldier I push my body
Through treacherous caves of memories.
With each step a new pebble is thrown
And my feet, stumbling over pinpricks -
Flashes shoot out like a paintball
From the side, behind me, in between my eyes
And with deadly precision
The sharpshooter catches the light in me again.
Thankfully I can put on my shoes
Throw mascaras on my eyes,
Hope whatever incendiary burns on inside
Keeps me going for another brush stroke
Or another promise that I can keep
Hiding from headshots and hoping to survive.
YOU ARE READING
Processing
PoetryA collection of poetry across ages, moments, and confusion. Tw - read at own desire
