The tip of the paintbrush
Punctured her skin,
Just as a needle would.
The paint falling into rhythm
With her blood
Before replacing it
With her flaws and demons,
Spreading throughout
Her body and veins.
The paint is red,
Mirroring what was once there.
Instead of controlling
Her whole body,
It courses through her veins
And pushes her heart
Upon her sleeve
For all to see.
Even her tears mirror
The paint.
The pain flowing out,
As though the amount of tears
She had already shed weren't enough
She is now drowning
In many emotions.
Many see the pain
And they know of her existence,
But not of what courses through her veins.
They don't know
That she is struggling to breathe
The same oxygen as they do.
Every particle now
Whispers of the wrong
She's done.
Every suffocating breath now
Whispers of her flaws,
Both real and imagined.
No one knew her.
They had yet to know
That she was art,
But what they did know
Was that art
Was built upon
Flaws.
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Word Count: 147 Words
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The Art Project | #Wattys2017
Poetry❝She's so beautiful, that she even makes the bending of her heart seem like it's okay.❞ ➳Rank #329 in Poetry | 8/17/16 ➳Cover by: @perhapsisjustarumour
