Naked in acrylic paints,
she laid her head on the pillow.
They dry faster, she thought,
but she knew art could be created better with oil paints.
She wanted to be who she was
because no eye wanted to see the void.
So she filled in the blurred parts inside
with a spectrum of characteristics;
some clean, some dirty, some stolen,
some shifting away, some creep closer.
No feature of the technique involved you.
But it arrived, anticipated.
A curse, bright as daylight,
pursuing her “now” and breathing down her neck.
Writing down what no one said she would become.
She shifted her look to the purgatory,
she moved her head,
and the colors on the pillow stayed,
colors that depict realization,
the filling of the void
that no one knew how to embellish.
The devil got her a new pair of eyes
that broke through every false friend
and thieves in the flesh of lovers lost in the night,
washed the shadows from the corners that got dirty on the bed
and painted universes on a broken glass pathway of beauty
on which she walked in her universe.
Her reflection now seems so much higher,
the world presented in new forms.
Her steps turned forward, for a change,
closer to the home she once knew.
She doesn’t need anyone’s light to guide her, never.
She doesn’t need a canvas when she has her watercolor in her head,
no oil nor acrylic, no paint nor mosaic.
Now, she knows water is a place to test her wings,
but instead of testing them,
she tried to assess her ability to fall.
Did you know that halos turn into horns
so that God can no longer grab them?
You don’t always wake up before hitting the ground.
Pain is felt in any dream.
Dreams can be built from any injury,
and they are material.
But they are not water.
Don’t think there’s no fall in the water,
it’s just repeatable,
But it has the unmistakably sweet taste.
Cut the rope before they have a chance
to let your hand fall where I am.