Waters path follows my cheekbones . Clean like the hidden spring.
I'm a coward to not confront my feelings. This moth that bangs itself to unconsciousness against a lightbulb in the night.
I'll stretch the canvas until it tears at its weak point. There is more meaning with its rips mended and visable with a clumsy thread. I don't care if society likes perfection and matching frames.
And words are the other acrylic. Some areas transluscent to show the...