he dips the tips of his fingers
in the paint
drags them across the surface
letting it stick
pulls them out
and watches it drip
then he turns and flicks them
at his canvas,
her bedroom wall
the little spots blend in
with the fiery ball of his rising,
her setting, sun
yet they finish his creation off
he stands,
smears the leftover red
from his fingers to his pants,
and flips the light switch
as he leaves,
the door clicking behind him
she lays in the dark
doused in his paint
fated to stare forever
at his last goodbye
I'm thinking poor dead girl.
ReplyDeleteI know. That's always my fear with relationships. That the other person will flip when you don't want to be with them anymore and do something completely nuts.
DeleteWow. Disturbing. Are you suggesting that a murderer considers himself an artist instead of what he is...a monster?
ReplyDeleteWhat a frightening creation. I could see him talking to his victims, "I am not killing you. You are part of my canvas. People will marvel at what took place here and talk about you for years to come. What I do here is nothing less than a Goya or a Rembrandt and you are my paint and this room my masterpiece."
I'm a 15 year old girl, Michael. When I write things at nearly midnight I'm not thinking that deep. XD
DeleteMostly my poems are just straight stories. Not saying there aren't exceptions. Or that this guy isn't almost that crazy. For him it's just sort of a one time deal.
Wow, how horrible and beautiful at the same time.
ReplyDeleteYep. That's my specialty. ^^ Thanks, Jessica.
DeleteI mind is taking this in so many directions that WOW is the only thing that is consistent in my thoughts. Very thought provoking indeed.
ReplyDeleteAh, thank you, Angela. ^^ I'm so glad you liked it. I feel like I'm on a role with my poems so far. Eleven and only one dud so far!
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