Opposite of Infinite

- 3 -

3 - Bruised Knuckles

paint is a substance that swirls,

curling and coiling as it ripples

in meandering sensations similar to that of 

a river returning to the sea.

gliding over the glaring white pigment of paper

and finishing with a strong, delicate

sheet of colour.

rich ornamentation to a blank space,

unfurling and deteriorating as it

crumbles in layers.

tenderly advancing on the colourlessness of water 

and encompassing barren portraits

with just enough buoyancy to breathe life.

permanent and staining all at once.

irremovable.

conflict penetrating a placid palette.

imprints protruding through anything you attempt to coat it with.

ridges,

like heaving mountains rising and falling as they

undertake the task of breath

while smothered in blood.

swamped in the substance and

dripping from your hands like a sort of

obsessive rainfall that

watered your feet 

as they exploded on your shoes and splattered the

sleek, shiny surface.

just like one of my paintings .

"he deserved it,"

you had said, voice clotted with oil as your thumb

caressed the deadly artwork adorning your skin,

a purple blossom blooming just under your chin

and your jaw as smooth as a joyous grin

pulled taut.

you didn't look at me.

"he was beating up some smaller kid. he deserved it."

and, for some reason, 

the paint got caught in my eye,

stinging and twisting as it manifested on the page,

colours bleeding into my own so much 

that I could no longer differentiate the two;

a sort of wound that had struck open

the view to a whole other universe.

a different structure configured that was,

perhaps,

a little more abstract.

an alternate path to the one the river

was originally meant to take.

but it was beautiful.

so bewitchingly captivating that I put my own brush down

for a moment,

taking it in.

mingling two compositions into one by

adopting your brush as my own,

submerging it into the palette I had reserved for myself

and painting

right over the marks you had made,

watching as running water came and

washed the red away,

providing the little strips of white

to cover up the impressions you had made

on your own skin.

"thank you,"

you had said,

"for helping me."

and I had nodded,

smiled,

walked away.

because,

underneath those layers that I had assisted you to paint,

covered by my own hero complex and appreciation for a boy who seemed to be doing the right thing,

were bruises.

festering

black, blue, purple and black again as they faded back into the light.

marring what had once been untouched.

clean.

and, although it would heal

in time,

a larger wound had opened 

and the paint was leaking right into my eyes.