I want to be a canvas and your lips the brushes,
your fingers the chalk, your tongue the ink that stains my skin.
Paint me in all your colours,
drench me in acrylics, watercolours, coal.
I will be your masterpiece,
placed in a museum, adored for centuries to come.
Your name will forever be etched in my substance.
I’m in a weird place in my life right now. A limbo between old and new. Where I am, I want to go and explore but at the same time I am okay with settling to familiar comforts. And currently I could almost give no fucks because I have prepared myself for so long to carry myself when I move on. Move on alone. And maybe support, as much good as it is, isn’t something I should care too much about if I’m determined to be on my own already. Whatevs