Colors, Words and Stories

Scarlet, orange, yellow, sepia,
I try to define how I feel with colors.
Fiery, slightly smothered, alien, then nostalgic;
The brush feels ginger, warm, welcoming under my fingertips-
In a way that your skin has ceased to feel, lately.
The canvas is an indecipherable, but vibrant mess.
Scarlet on the left, yellow on the right, orange to bridge the gap, sepia tinted,
Oh, how the colors drip, mingle and fade with every stroke!


Dry, drunk, crazy, mad…
Scarlet, blue, orange…
No, slash this sheet –
An unfinished, unrefined rainbow,
Mere blotches of imperfection!


My fingers let go of the brush, and dip themselves in the paint instead.
Scarlet red, harlot red, fuchsia, lavender, ivy green,
Electric pink, honey, ochre, sepia again;
Denial, frenzy, losing, going, almost lost, gone…
Fuck painting! Fuck art! Come back!


Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven… Six… Five…
Feel time through your nostrils,
Feel time travelling down your trachea,
Feel time bend to fill your lungs,
Who do you want to return?
Who have you loved enough?
I don’t know. Someone!
No one in particular, but everyone…


Heart rate increasing,
Blood in my cheeks,
Too much warmth, heat,
Eyes hurting, head spinning,
Just a few more Xanax pills;
Keep breathing…
Four… Three… Two… One…


Tired, bruised, alien, lost –
I try to define how I feel with words:
Yes, void; yes, empty; yes, hollow
Absence of something vital;
Too much energy, no direction…


I cover my dashboard with stories of people bleeding words and feelings and disappointments
(the negative emotions are the best)
I fill my life with chosen inputs, caffeine, filtered people
(and close my eyes to the rest)
I have a dead dragonfly on my desk whose significance is vastly unknown
(though I like to pretend it’s to remind me of death)
I hope it will make me live better.
Does it?


Distressed, I turn to the typewriter, and watch green on black
In the red glow of a thousand little lights outside
Writing in times of wanting something, yearning for something;
Wishing for that little something that I can’t quite put my finger on;
It’ll be the next band I discover,
the next book I buy (or hopefully, am gifted – whatever happened to the Facebook ‘book exchange’?),
the next lab I attend,
the next experiment I perform –
it’ll come, it’ll come.
The seeking keeps me busy from one day to the next,
Filling emptiness with every new site I discover to kill my time,
I write empty words and make empty pictures that are dressed so perfectly, oh so perfectly –
As I try to make everyone love me.


Then, I fall.
And I write what is honestly mine – and then, I delete it.
Strange voices in my head:
“You don’t want the truth to ruin everything for you.”

And when I reply to those beautiful messages from beautiful readers, I sometimes cry pointlessly in front of the screen.
Are you happy?
They love you.

Are you happy?
You succeeded in making them love you.

Are you happy? Now what?

Typing: Thank you so much, love.

Thank you for what? For giving you a little bit of their heart which you do not even deserve?

Thank you.

Bloody hell! You’re empty, hollow, void.
You’re nothing. Nothing good will ever come out of nothing.


I cringe.


I tell myself I’m collecting stories,
but probably,
I’m just looking for things
to cover up the absence of any.



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