i paint myself
with memories and
promises.
what a privilege,
what an honour to
be loved.
what a privilege to
be known at all.
what a privilege to be
seen.
i paint myself
with rain.
i sleep exceptionally well
when it rains;
i write in my dreams
and put my hand out the window,
hold it in
the cold rain
until it is numb,
and not my hand at all anymore.
my body
is my childhood bedroom,
and i’ve taken to redecorating.
pink walls
and every photo of me
i’ve ever loved.
i think i spend
most of my time
in the centre of my chest,
where i sit in a garden
of flowers;
flowers i planted
for every love i’ve ever
lived.
i live in my love
and draw
myself in fields of lavendar.
it would be quite
lovely to walk
through my veins
and my arteries,
to find me where i am most
myself.
i will walk the tightropes
of my capillaries and
the fibres of my muscles ;
dance along the ridges
and shadows of my bones
and i will
find every beating and
bleeding heart within me.
i will paint myself
in blood and
hope.
i will paint a self
portrait in rain.
the rain wraps itself around me,
warm and forgiving
and cold to the touch.
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