Abstract Painting

Poem – Red Canvas

Spoken Word Poetry

Death grip on his hand, I’m afraid to let go, five fingers hold on tight.
One two three four,
My body is dangling on the side of the bridge holding on to your hand for dear life, dangling my legs between the thorns of your life and the depth of the fall on the other, my mind wanders but my hand tightens while I scream onto the white cotton in my mouth, bloody mouth.

One two three,
You were never the sun you promised, you were never the moon you looked like.
You were like the beige sawdust that gets stuck to your fingers while working or like the tip of the spinning wheel in the sleeping beauty, a curse. You were never maleficent you were always the spinning wheel.

One two three,
Tick tock tick, the hands of the clock move faster, my beating heart resembles. Tick tick tock tick.

One two
I can feel myself slipping, into the fall, into the dark depth.
It infuriates me that the way you smiled blocked all of my senses, that when you pressed that belt on to my skin I thought that it was normal, that it was love, that it will be over soon and my prince will return. But the beast stayed and brought hell with him, I thought I wouldn’t ever have to know what hell would be like but you brought it with you, you burnt all of my will and my freedom and my dresses and my brushes, you burned the bridge of trust and hope in the name of love

Red neck and purple eyes strangled waists and forced hands,
You never went you always stayed and not for a minute did I breathe, not for a minute I moved.

I fell and fell and fell. And never stopped, my body thanking me for the air, for the moment of falling into the abyss, the void, the dark. my friends.
I never understood why I became a pet, why I never rebelled against you like I advise most people to do, why I never took my own pencil and sharpened it to the point that your back would be filled with blood, not mine this time but yours. I see the empty canvases and blank pages, unused brushes and filled paint tubes and I wonder how people call me an artist,
I wonder how they call me an artist because the moment I met you, I became a canvas I let you paint me red and purple and pain and anguish. I let you paint me when I should’ve been the one to use your blood for the sun in my next masterpiece.

P.C. – Red World by Faith Goble

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