Pigment
by Jiah B.
they were the dusk sky,
a streaky purple
of the royals bred in dust.
trickling opaque lacquer of
ardent loyalty,
and to the bone they rebelled
for their darling dearest.
the one who waved brushes with purpose,
palette in hand, willfully ignorant.
the one who found beauty in the ugly,
bloody and throbbing.
the paint smothered them,
like a chokehold in an embrace.
it was comforting
for they liked being loved; deserved it.
how will they ever survive
when the love runs out?
like a splash of water onto a dewy canvas;
until one day it did.
out their body and into the trench
with the vicious rainwater of the storm.
left them devoid of affection,
bare and dry.
they saw their veins for the first time, the blood,
a blazing fire
pumping through, the air in their lungs
like a leap off a height.
their life flashed before their eyes.
they saw all the portraits and stains and frames,
rotten, hollow, dismantled.
the grotesqueness of it all;
love that rendered them impaired.
tears washed away the last traces of lilac under their eyes
and suddenly they were the dawn.
tender pink emerging from the gloaming,
uneasy yet audacious.
paint strokes didn't define them anymore, couldn't.
pigments started shifting;
and pinks and blues didn't make purple,
it made a muddy venom; a thick tar of misfortune.
vile paint brushes were snapped in half and
the splinters pricked their skin,
drawing out crimson in protest.
but fire colors empowered them now
and there they stood, rooted in dust again
without violet enamor.
in a pool of red, something of their own,
and they survived.
breathed, bled and screamed.
they survived.
a streaky purple
of the royals bred in dust.
trickling opaque lacquer of
ardent loyalty,
and to the bone they rebelled
for their darling dearest.
the one who waved brushes with purpose,
palette in hand, willfully ignorant.
the one who found beauty in the ugly,
bloody and throbbing.
the paint smothered them,
like a chokehold in an embrace.
it was comforting
for they liked being loved; deserved it.
how will they ever survive
when the love runs out?
like a splash of water onto a dewy canvas;
until one day it did.
out their body and into the trench
with the vicious rainwater of the storm.
left them devoid of affection,
bare and dry.
they saw their veins for the first time, the blood,
a blazing fire
pumping through, the air in their lungs
like a leap off a height.
their life flashed before their eyes.
they saw all the portraits and stains and frames,
rotten, hollow, dismantled.
the grotesqueness of it all;
love that rendered them impaired.
tears washed away the last traces of lilac under their eyes
and suddenly they were the dawn.
tender pink emerging from the gloaming,
uneasy yet audacious.
paint strokes didn't define them anymore, couldn't.
pigments started shifting;
and pinks and blues didn't make purple,
it made a muddy venom; a thick tar of misfortune.
vile paint brushes were snapped in half and
the splinters pricked their skin,
drawing out crimson in protest.
but fire colors empowered them now
and there they stood, rooted in dust again
without violet enamor.
in a pool of red, something of their own,
and they survived.
breathed, bled and screamed.
they survived.
Jiah B. is a handful and always a tad bit stressed by default. She is also a devoted aestheticism enthusiast, art lover, and poet. Her poems often tend to be visualizable, prominent, and ever tangible; just like art. She also makes sure they are flexible enough to be interpreted however the reader wants because she believes that's what art is all about.