I hiccuped and felt the paintbrush mark my face. It didn’t bother me at this point. Paint caked my fingernails, quickly drying into layers that I would later pick at during a nervous fit. I couldn’t even see the painting clearly because of my tears, but it didn’t matter. The thought of it still broke my heart and brought me to this messy sadness that I am now. I rub at my eyes, smearing more paint, in an effort to see what I’ve done. And when my vision clears, it’s perfect; it’s like I’d taken a photo of a moment in time past. That’s when I truly do lose it.
Bookmarked by iminnocentplez
04 Apr 2018