She Couldn’t Tell if He Was Using Blood or Paint

Image Courtesy: Strike FSU

I couldn’t tell if he was using blood or paint.

Because they have the same appearance in the dark. Each stroke of the brush outlined every curve and lump of my body, making the brush think it was important since it was staining the canvas. But each stroke thinks it is the last when it leaves the canvas, waiting for when it can kiss the canvas again. He continues to paint my map of imperfections blindly, in the dead of night, shadowing me, shading me, defining me, and all. Even though I tried to bring him to the light, I always had to guard myself against him, who consorted with the crepuscule. I realized he liked to paint in the dark so that the shadows would make my wounds disappear. It just makes them harder to see. The strokes of cardinal and mauve were frightening. I looked hopeless, messy, and unrecognizable. The artist robbed me of my story.

Image Courtesy: Pinterest

Strike Out,

Writer: Racquel Gluckstern

Editor: Breanna Tang

Graphic Designer: Abbey Fleming

Tallahassee