A picture perfected over time.

I look at it now and my brain doesn’t recognize

What it’s supposed to mean to me.

The definition of trust,

Something you no longer represent.

I turned a blind eye, thinking

“It’s nothing paint can’t fix”

Not seeing the picture bleeding from behind.

Finding different shades through life to keep it clear

But with every shape drawn,

A white brush follows.

 

Remembering the past

Our canvas was seen as unbreakable.

Though walls cracked

And floors fell

The colors were vibrant and strong.

Mixing new colors

Looked odd but fit perfect

Like locked fingers.

 

We never had to question this unspoken perfection.

But rips, tears, and burn marks

Leave our canvas in danger

Of being tossed away.

Trying to tape it up

Just makes it worse.

The vibrant colors that once were, dulls.

 

Sobbing drenches this.

It becomes nothing more than fragile paper.

It won’t hold.

Desperately trying to cling pieces together

And cover it in new colors,

But it mocks me with soiled brushes.

I’ve come to the realization

With color smashing against each other

Our canvas is discolored.

 

I don’t want it anymore.