streaming.

Re-creation. An adaptation.

My paint strokes are not flawless.

Some people’s faces are,

Not mine.

Speckled and spackled,

No hope in there being a glow, a shine.

Reflection. Refraction.

Eyes burn and twitch.

The twitch of a cat’s tail.

Spinning, sliding, jumping onto a string, dangling overhead.

A man hangs from a knotted rope. No cat will pounce on that string.

Just dangling. Like witches hanging from rafters, but he condemned himself.

He didn’t need spectators to tell him who he wasn’t.

The trees creak and quiver, but the night rushes on—too quick to catch a dream,

not quick enough for nightmares.

They come even as you wake.

Illuminated and stained.

A re-creation of what life could be,

but it’s not.

The paint leaks, but it doesn’t spatter.

It’s rough, but pretty, but not perfect.

I’m not either.

My lines aren’t smooth, my pigment isn’t pure, but I’m not a nightmare.

I’m someone’s dream: a waking dream.

I won’t condemn myself there. 

orange you glad?

Orange.
It's not a color that's high on my list. I enjoy eating oranges, but ultimately the color is just atrocious, and most people can't even pull off wearing it. Only very few skin tones are privileged (cursed?) enough.
Orange has always reminded me of all things drab and icky. Must I even say puke? And other various things that I just would prefer to not mention.
However, today I did find a medium in which I can tolerate orange, and that would be lipstick.
Unlike the ruby red lips, which I love to sport when I want to feel sophisticated and daring, orange lips are casual and playful. They are summer and fresh, and they will be my companion for the next few months until the weather turns cold and pale.

the face of evil.

I lay to dream, and when I fall

black spindly wings unfurl from

their roots on my back.

They extend like spiders’ legs,

leather draping from the joints.

I fight the wind and it exhausts under me.

Frost glues itself to my inky wings,

ice sprouts from the leather fabric.

I peer too high,

and others fear for me.

They say my wings are a curse,

evil courses through the veins.

But I’m not evil…I’m still me.

The wings are merely an accessory,

they do not qualify me.

So I wear them, and will continue to do so, peering, leering,

down on others.

My point of view is much improved.