Black fingertips,
Purple knuckles,
Pale lips.
They won't wash away
This isn't the dried paint
She was used to
It won't wash away
From her face
Nor his knuckles.
What was harder,
She didn't know
Maybe it was seeing What he had chosen to do to himself
Maybe it was knowing it was ten times worse on her
Pale lips
Purple knuckles
Black fingertips
No paint in between,
Yet a sad scene
Sat fresh on a
Broken canvas.
