white washed

I wanted to nip around the slight cut on your lips in  
hopes that you would notice me. I wanted to feel  
your swollen skin split between my teeth and  
decorate my chin as a painting you never hung high  
before on those aged, bone cracked walls.  
 
I watched you scrub them with homemade arsenic  
once; saw your desperate hands clawing wordless  
screams deep into it's very architecture. You looked  
like a pretty blues song overdosing in front of a  
blank canvas back then, and I wanted you to spill  
color over everything.  
 
To kiss me violently under lurid moonlight and  
smear damp, red condolences on my flesh. To  
lightly graze your tongue against my teeth and  
force some semblance of art down my throat.   
 
Mostly, I did. But a piece of me simply wanted to  
leave my memory as the taste of bloody cigarettes  
and a brutal scar puckered along your mouth. Not  
surprising, I'm sure. I was always a messy artist  
after all.