she isn't an artist,
but she loved drawing.
she drew on her favorite canvas,
watch as the ink drip
down the rugged surface of her filled potrait.
her heart jumps
every time her brush touches her canvas.
first stroke felt like static.
second stroke felt like sparks.
third stroke felt like electricity.
she's combusting.
she was consumed
by the fire that resembled her ink color.
she fell to her knees,
her tool still on hand.
she continued drawing.
her canvas filled
with scriptures and landscapes
that resembled her fears.
she dropped her brush
and stared at her masterpiece.
speechless.
numb.
dead.
she loves staring at her drawings,
they give her a sense of regret and relief.
"i should draw more." she'd think
but the canvas is full already,
and she's out of ink.
—c.c.
