The green paint covers my dry dirty hands.
I distract myself in the liquid accomplishment of painting over another’s dusty white walls. These walls are thick with paint, from the layers of lives that have been in and out of this small room. A new life to live on Lafayette street. A new bridge to burn, and new lesson to learn..new legs above my stable feet.
Brush strokes of transcendence.
I don’t want to wash my hands of this paint
I want it to seep into my bloodstream until I explode the light moss, interior, America’s Finest, out of my unwarranted apologies and nights of “When the Pawn” stays on repeat.
124 FL oz are flooding my forget me nots, are shredding my unburned letters, and are ending in a culmination of folk opera sounds and lighter flicks..