The Canvas

Paint flies through the air
as my hands flail and toss.

Blacks and blue
and storms of red and brown.
My face contorts with my rage
and my hands are covered in the
blood-spattering effect
of the paint.

The canvas is wounded
with bleeding gashes,
dents, and streaks;
the visual portrayal
of my heart.

I stand back and pant,
the fury still raging inside.
I run forward,
throwing myself at the stained
mess.

My shoulder makes the canvas
give some more and the paint
drips to fill in the new hole
and my body shrivels down
to the floor.

My arms and face and shirt
are covered with the lurid pigment.

As I breakdown, both physically
and mentally,
the colors mix with
the salty pools of my tears.

Even as I sit,
withered on this floor with
the wreck of my newest creation above me,
I feel no relief.

The painting doesn't
change anything.
It can't replace him.
It can't bring them back.
It can't heal me.

I raise my hand to the base of the board,
holding my fingers in the
sticky moisture
and claw once more
as my body is racked with a
fresh wave of tears.

Copyright 2009, Colleen Sarah Rice