Shattered Thoughts

Poem: Painting

We wanted to paint a pretty picture.

Use all the colors to make us a victor.

We wanted the perfect body,

Just to make us jolly.

Why did it make our minds feel foggy?

To clear it all a bit we made a cut.

And now I know I shouldn't have done it; I felt it in my gut.

But my mind's door was shut.

We had all the colors to use at our will.

We had to make sure none of them spilled.

Or else we wouldn't have anything to hone our skills.

Grab a water, don't tell anyone.

If one finds out, make sure you can run.

You don't want to come out.

The boy in class knows.

He asks "why is this something you chose."

I froze.

What if he could see what lied under my clothes?

His words would probably slow.

Then I would back into the shadows.

I pass him in the hall.

I push up against the wall.

Are my bony hips worthy of a catcall?

All my ribs stick through.

What if this is something he could view?

A few more cuts is what I should do.

He finds me on a park bench.

My fits clenched. 

He started talking so I pretend to speak french.

But I don't want him to leave.

So I roll up my sleeves.

He rolls up his and we both become thieves.

Stealing secrets.

With a bleakness.

But a little light found my darkness.

He asks what I call it,

And my mouth is straining.

"What I call it is painting."

I worry that he'll laugh like he's out of control.

Give it a week and it'll be his smile I stole.

I realize I can never make him happy, not while I've got a sad soul.