𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆

𝑴𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖

𝑴𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖—-𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒚-𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒆

Playing it's been so long by the living tombstone

Paint
It's a morbid sight
The painting chaotic and hurried as if the artist was fighting to survive
Each stroke holds another held-back tear
Each colour she adds is another fear

Fear of what? Herself?
Herself.
She's seeing it in the mirror
In the reflection of puddles
She screams but she's sure no one can hear her

She was happy, a vibrant scene of life now turned into a splash of disparity
She doesn't search for something to paint, now it's a search for clarity

The pictures distorted, her vision nothing short of deranged
She can't see anything but the canvas,
To her nothing has aged

She's stuck, painting the same thing over and over again
The wounds bleeding, it was split right open
It was inevitable really, after all of these years,

she would run out of Paint and her passion would soon lay dead
What you would never guess is that she still paints years on, because funnily enough she never ran out of the colour red

My mother was a painter. She painted beautiful pictures, every kind of vibrant because her passion was in the emotions in the strokes.

Before she met my father, she was free-spirited. She loved life and she captured that in every piece she painted.

But as soon as my father's true colours were shown to her, rather than a rainbow of love, it was a streak of black with a tinge of blood.

He was a bad, ruthless man. He was involved with dangerous things. So when she married him, her freedom was taken away.

I'd go and visit her every moment I could. Like a painter locked away, she never left her tower.

She'd tell me that she didn't mind it. She enjoyed it.

But then she changed. She went insane.

Her paintings became lifeless charcoal with weak strokes of mere emptiness.

Her eyes weren't full of any acrylic paint.

Her finger tips touched more blood than oil paints.

She screamed every night like a weeping ghost.

She was a ghost.

But instead of not being able to see her.

She never saw anything ever again, other than the blank sheet of canvas that was yet to be covered in the thick red of her body.

An:

Ohhh? Whose memory do you think this is?👀