Poem -

Hands

When paintbrush tips contain life-blood.

I imagine my hands
the tips of paintbrushes.

D e l i c a t e l y
    they brush the world around me.

Admittedly, the color is faint, but it does exist.

One day
    I will drown myself
       in that beautiful hair
    and
       the world
    will never be the same.
 

 

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