IP: Spring Each mauve petal folds into a balloon, straining its stem-string, wishing to rise into burning blue circles of sky; kites, birds - love songs.
You ask for the moon. I trek down into the indigo sky-mine, pickaxe in hand. Hack away at the blue rock, until I find a lump of ore - glowing like a pupil-less eye - lost its stare.
I behaved myself for months and was allowed some acrylics and canvas. After I painted over the security camera, tried to hang myself with my bed sheets.
Never the proud, protective lover; I was too fragile to break. We rowed, so I clawed at your face like a rake, slicing you to smother and smooth my ache.