Turpentine

He carved me from the canvas—
sharp, graphite bones, and watercolors
bleeding into penciled skin.
Then thick oil paints, layer
on layer, coat after coat
of red on red on red, gently—
tender caresses on my hips,
my legs, my chest. He paints
my breasts, and I,
his cheeks with scarlet.

Still, I offer him no sigh
of my stolen breaths, no whisper
of my purloined syllables.
My iron brow and carbon clavicles
defy his affectation.
This buried heart will never seek him,
for I am the Delilah of his desolation.
Scarlet of cochineal upon my lips
is the shattered hulls of female insects,
my fat, the rendered fat of calves.
The shadowed pigment of my skin?
Carbon. “Amorphous Carbon Produced
by Charring Animal Bones.” Herein
is my spirit, bones upon bones.

Your angled razor on
my cracked mosaic skin
cannot defile; I shed this tabernacle
gladly. With each fiery drop
of your indignation, I grow thinner.
Thinner, I will not melt away;
I am more than these pigments,
these gesso ligaments,
I am eternal Shiva,
I am annihilation.
I am the echo of your solitude, and
I fear no turpentine:
I drink destruction laughing.

Lead Paint

I refuse to grow up
If I'll end up
Just another lost boy
Thrown from Neverland
To Never can and Never will.
To always sleep and Never dream:
Maybe this is your dream,
But I'll hold to mine...
I've found my way
And you can't say
That I'm too young to understand.
It's okay, it's okay,
You can act like it's okay,
But the facts will say
That things... fall apart,
Our childhood playthings start
To fade from our minds much sooner
Than cheap Chinese paint
That kills children.
But we buy it. We buy it anyway...