here is the canvas, here are the oils. slop brush to surface and do something for once in your life, for god’s sake. put this and that together, make a whole. a whole is the sum of its parts. take all the parts inside of you, all the cogs and gears and wires, and tell them to make order. tell them its their time to shine. they’re not pretty like this but you can make them so. you can empty yourself and paint the results in the sunlight. a mind more graceful on paper than sitting dark in the hollow of your head. this part of your heart is not used to seeing the light, something crystalline in cracked sunshine. quick, steer the ship in another direction. there is nothing pretty about a coward. nothing pretty about hiding from the daytime. smother your heart in the shine of it all, and why would she despise that?
as you were. there is more to this yet. a real renaissance man, you are. paint the scrambling of it all, the facets of yourself rushing to find one another. only on the outside do you revel in aloneness. take this corner of him, struck dead by an archer; struck dead by love, as the poets call it. and isn’t that the fate your mother desired? to perish surrounded by petals, sinking in your aching heart? a dreamer’s death always seemed fitting. to drown and drown again in the salt seas of yourself. it will take a few tries before your limbs are done with this. heartache is a rather bad shot, i must say. to be stuck down into water again, all in stillness, all painted blue. the brush does not develop like a photograph; it spits on canvas, doesn’t wait to give you meaning. blue and blue and blue. no hesitation. somehow we will capture this. somehow we will be immortal.
in the final moments of it all, their skin is bathed in truth and funeral suits. they are not home, though they wouldn’t know what it felt like if they were. some things you cannot paint. does her quiet smile tell us what we want to hear? in the squinting of his eyes can you tell he aches for a place he does not know? storms of music rage on canvas with a bitten tongue. a silent explosion of cacophony. well, we did what we could. sugar trapped between their teeth chased with bloody wine; a nice sultry red. bodies propped up against bodies, bodies in coffins, filling in the pale flesh of death. reduce it to color, reduce it to the dream. we shrink ourselves down to the idea of things. life is prettier when it is unreal. slosh black onto her dress, women frozen in mourning. tell yourself this is not reality. that you will never be her. more black. the crowd stares out at you, thinks nothing. you stare back at them, wish you were the same.
i got the idea for this from an insta prompt about still life (cough *@cottagepoetry follow me* cough) but... i feel like i've been a bit busy on there lately so i am going back to my old ways and posting this on here first! thank u guys for reading, and of course thoughts (positive or negative) are always appreciated !! <3