Body of painting

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Van Gogh’s painting that I stole from the museum

Is stuck in my throat

As it’s colors are flooding my eyes

Melting my face .

Windows painted in yellow

The lamps are spreading it’s light inside the house

Yet there are no shadows of children

Dancing to the music of their father,

Is visible through that yellow eyes of the house.

Are those house sad

I asked my lover

He grabbed hold of my hand and

Bit all of my fingers

One by one

Some of them bled while the others not

Then he asked me

Write poetry with those and frame them as it is

In their written form

And someone might once ask her lover

Seeing those words, those blood stains

Was she sad when she wrote this?

And her lover might just kiss her to tell her

It doesn’t matter anymore.

It doesn’t matter anymore!

I’ve heard someone say that

Artists are mad men who isolate themselves

Scarifies things no one cares about

And call themselves the forgotten ones.

Van Gogh cut his ears off for his art

My mother grabbed hold of my hands

Much firmer than how my lover held

And asked what are you going to do

I knew she was trying to say, don’t cut your wrist.

Depression may not be a painting

But it is black water to marble something on.

I’ve forgotten the difference between sunrises and sunsets now and

I just float at the end of the sea

My skin exposed and the crimson sun

Coloring each of my skin cells, in red, blue, yellow, Orange and purple too sometimes.

While I mumur to the sea in a dead tone

que mon corps soit un tableau

Let my body be a painting.

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