I used to paint to most beautiful canvases,
but my arms grew weak from the lack of blood,
and each piece would end with me collapsed
before it. Trauma has a way of lifting me
up just to drop me again. My trauma,
The paintbrushes float in the buckets of blood;
the room’s beginning to smell of metal and rotten
sacrifice. I’m misplaced. I am small.
There is no such thing as an artist,
just a product, a desperation that people stare
at under exposed light. They make distant comments
about how it feels to have an insatiable life.
Do I make you feel whole? Is there anything
here for you?
Art is just a form of screaming,
and I’m out of breath from the years.
I have seen enough of Hell to paint
a thousand masterpieces, but my body
rejects this life I’m leading.
The audience steps over me as they exit
the exhibit. All of the doctors, the teachers,
the parents and children. I am left. I am
carefully avoided. I am lifted from the ground
and placed before the stark canvas.
Paint to make the pain go away.