she said she likes to paint with words.
she chooses them from that tiny box that never closes all the way, the outside plastered with dumb stickers she stole from the check-out line at brandy melville (she didn't actually buy anything). she arranges them in a line - carefully, because she wouldn't want them to break. they are her and she is them. the words are her insides, the organs that bring her to life, pumping ichor through those manhattan veins. the words leave residue on her fingers, sticky like tar and that reddish hue of a tattoo that she gets from eating one too many pomegranate seeds. the words are stuck underneath her bitten-down fingernails, like the half-melted pastels she likes to draw with. she colors outside of the lines she's created for herself. i don't understand why she draws the lines if she's just going to ignore them. maybe she likes creating rules simply to break them. (after all, rebellion is the latest trend.)
the words spell out her soul - they are her soul. they are wicked and wild and soft and soothing and deadly and devastating and rich and ruined.
i can see it now - the picture she's written. harsh lines and soft brush strokes. never to be washed off the canvas that is her notebook, that is her skin.
i can see right through her rushed scrawl, her hurried scribbles. i see her behind it all, wearing a dirty painting smock, the side of her hand smudged black from the pencil she's been writing with.
she likes to paint with words, but these words are too strong to be painted with. she's short one sentence of that perfect picture she dreams of, and that one sentence will never be found. she tries too hard.
