Symbolic Suffering

The color of you

Color me blue like you always do.

I'll color you in, too, with black, red, and purple left from the dark blood blemish you left on my face from your fit of hate.

You use me as your canvas even when I ask you not to. I'm the art to the artist. I have no say in what he does or what color to use.

I shiver in gray each time you step away. I know what it means when you pick up the pen and begin to write.

The yellow ink hits the page like a knife to flesh you cut your way through the sheet of paper. When you stand up and observe your work. The page is torn to shreds, and there is nothing there to read even though you spend an hour trying to write one thing.

You're not a writer, just a man. Walk over to the only art you ever knew to do. The only thing you knew to read was me.