November 5, 2017.
i'm his bleeding canvas
This kind of thing isn't easily explained by a ripped up love letter you find on your way to work.
Or by that one random person sleeping on a bench outside, hugging onto a dozen roses for company.
It's just not that easy; so I'll put it in another way.
From an artist to another, your very own poetic tattoo that you can never erase.
My emotions are like watercolors; Each beautiful on their own if I take the time to observe outside myself and my fears.
But once they start to mix, the color resembles mud and the paper is so damp and thin that it starts falling apart.
You just gave me a distressed image of my depressed, brown eyes dripping tap water tears.
And said you never meant to break my heart.
You admit you’re an artist so I’m not really that surprised-
That you think you can cover up my “flaws” with a little extra white.
Your soft, sadistic kisses are just strokes of a paint brush
And your cigarette smoke is like charcoal
It never leaves my clothes, I’m left with the lingering dust.
So I guess you could say I'm never truly alone after your last pack of smokes.
If we all had a sign right above our head.
Just a simple warning so people wouldn't have to find out instead.
Yours would say, "My love's not clean."
And I wouldn't be stuck with the black and white on my jeans.
My mind was busy elsewhere, I guess your heart was as well.
At least I can say I never shared my palet with anyone else.
So use the remaining colors of me that you have left wisely.
Because your last bleeding canvas is the only way you'll be able to find me.
Poetry by aidan haskel
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Written on 2017-11-05 at 08:57
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