thin wooden board, light enough to be picked up by the heaviest of hands.
an assortment of colors squeezed from unearthed tubes of hued emotions arranged upon its splintered back.
mixed and arranged, smudged into bristles contouring blank canvases.
at times, i paint myself. sometimes, others paint me.
perspective is a dysfunctional lover undressing my eyes and fucking them with massive strokes of false belief.
be bright. or the world will trash you.
"only use blacks to distort your reality and outline your woe’s..but don’t color them in."
such thoughts must be crumbled into paper balls aimed prudently at tin baskets.
i am all of me. all of me is worthy to be seen.
i am black just as much as i am yellow
just as much as i am combined forces of red and blue.
my life is a work of art even if i never choose to see it this way.
the truth extends beyond my perspective and bleeds into pigmented wonders beneath the epidermis valleys and rolling hills of veins.
hello. my name is abeo. and i have a problem.
i indulge in an impulsive, uncontrollable consumption of words.
i swallow thoughts, shoot ideas inside my crippled veins, and inhale conjectured poetry.
i’m in love with ink.
i’d buy a bottle everyday if i could.
the world around me tells me:
i think too much.
i drink too much.
i ink too much.
what would you do if your only source of plugging into your soul’s outlet was through solvents, dyes, pigments, fluorescers and resins?
i hide in corners, tugging on the sleeves of my cardigan, face full of bleeding mascara and smeared maroon lipstick.
a cold, wet pen, dripping with ink, always in my hand.
i pop off the cap and begin to drench my throat with words that aren’t actually spoken.
they are written.
i’m smitten by this sort of love triangle.
my fears dance inside the vessel of my throat, dying to plie into life.
instead my brain finds resolution in the fears that dance through the veins of my left arm, down to the sensory tips of my fingers.
in turn, i become discombobulated from reality.
i smile when i write.
i move when i write.
my words flow magically from invisible lines springing from the realms of my tightly pressed lips.
shoulders propped regally against black leather.
hello. my name is abeo. and i have a problem. i participate in an impulsive, uncontrollable consumption of words.
but i’m not seeking rehab.
i’ve got demons sitting on my shoulder.
perched like blackened parrots upon my bony skin.
they rule and run me. suck my water dry.
we swim through loathing thoughts and grimy creeks.
we sprint through whisky and chase after diet cokes.
we jump over hurdles of logic and into buckets of irrational quicksand.
we hold hands with souls and amputate their confidence with hurtful words.
they romance me.
clothe me with ideas.
when i am lonely.
naked in thought.
cold and uninterested in the world around me.
they are the scars on my arm.
they are the hangovers in the morning.
they are the salty stars within my eyes.
they are the dark moons beneath them.
they are the quick fixes of weed and wine.
they are the bursts of energy, deflated by mid-afternoon.
they are the curtains, closed before the sun.
at times, i wish i could be saved. held and kissed and loved the way i was when i was a little girl.
not held captive by monsters. held and kicked and hated the way i am now that i’m a woman.