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Canvas.
May 4, 2019
My mother birthed a canvas;
Blank ‘till my first kiss from a fist
And agony turned twisted curiosity.
Infatuation. Fixation. Obsession.
Made amethyst by shattered vessels,
Strikes raising juvenile welts,
Singing epidermis for allure.
A blank canvas is but wasted space;
So dare I expel preservation—
To paint lips crimson and eyes lilac
With brush of Algea?
© Allison F., Menlo Park, CA
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The body is a canvas, and that is something I wished to emphasize in this poem. While injuries are typically viewed as disturbing to the eye, there are some who see injuries as added paint on the canvas, needed to bring together the artwork.