Painted Love

I drag my feet along the gravel, watching the pebbles move and scatter beneath my feet. They are being affected, I am creating a reaction, I like this feeling. It makes me feel alive, effectual in a place I often feel nothing.
My reflection has become muted so to speak, shades of grey that cast shadows in the hollows of my face. Sometimes I will run into a expectant stranger, he speaks will a kind work. I walk away, uncertain these words we're spoken for me, of me. Surprised. As I replay them in my head, a watch my reflection and for a fleeing moment color enters my checks, sometime even the dark outline of charcoal on my lips will soften with shades of rose or coral. I feel painted, or the beginning a a painting will emerge. a desperation or obsession begins to set in, more paint, kind thoughts, kind words spoken, a gentle touch. I want to come alive.
So I seek, and have learned how to fish for food, to scrape the crumbs from the heartfelt and deep, the troubled the lonely. They know me, the painting of their souls are similar. I stroke, a color, a stroke, a tint, in if lucky the return occurs, but the painting from a desperate man can become painful, the brush strokes tearing at the surface of my thin stretched canvas. At times he can gouge me deeply, ripping and tearing the cotton threads. Colors now forced and conflicting, stark, clashing against the pastels of my existence.
In protection and protest I retreat and my colors fade, leaving only gaping holes and torn fabric on a muted pallet of dismal grey once again.
Withering Withering
36-40, F
1 Response Jan 10, 2013

This is beautifully written and is exactly how I feel.