Heartache.
The canvas is smeared with white paint.
Obscured, white on white, a lack of any emotion.
The artist has the balls to call it a masterpiece.
I grow angry, and ball my fists.
And then slowly bleed out.
My heart, rupturing in a royal flush.
I demand solace and love.
Society scorns me and pours fountains of salt upon my wounds.
My heart bleeds all the fiercer.
The artist cackles and splatters me with white paint.
And I steal his palette, pushing him off the edge of the earth.
And paint myself red.
And then I weep red tears.
And tear my heart from my chest, in a wash of red.
Yet I stay white on the inside.
Despite the fury of the red.
My tears only serve to wash away the red of my existence.
And thus I am fallow.
A man covered in white paint, backed by a white canvas, on a white existence.
I am a royal flush of the whitest suite.
Designed to lose against every hand.
And my heart aches constantly.
What life is this?
That I live in torment, devoid of love?
How long will I exist as such?
How long will I cry within, while smiling outside, in order to spread love to others?
While not having any specifically for myself?
And why does every thump of the heart send into motion a churning of gears?
That sparks a pandemonium of interactions.
Ending in a needle to my sternum.
No angel could pull every single one from my flesh.
My skin is a pin cushion.
And thus I am stained white.
Bleeding red, but painted white.
A mingling of colors.
A mingling of creeds.
Resulting in Ultimatum.
Heartache.
