We are one.
The paintbrush, the canvas, me.
I paint myself.

But before I do, I imagine.

The cool blues, the sweet violets, the joyous greens.


The bright yellows, the warm oranges, the brilliant pinks.





And then the reds.



The deep, dark reds.




My paintbrush, dripping blood, attacks the canvas.



My heart, racing, cries out in sorrow.



I am a tornado, raging, raining, storming.




I'm still painting myself, but it is not me anymore.







I finish, out of breath, sobbing heavily.





I look up at my creation.





There is no paint, no marks, nothing.











I am no one.








I am a blank canvas.