There is a paintbrush and a marker, an empty canvas and an old wooden door.
There are journals with lines, journals without, lying across your bed.
Matched and ordered, colors in a row, ready, set, go. But no.
Please start again. Paint and color peep their heads out, and there you are.
They love you. Love who you are. But no.
Expensive gold leaf right on top.
Expensive gold leaf.There are bits of it in the layers and layers, color over color.
They don’t know, and they don’t see the bits and who is here. But no.
Paints are stacked in this heavy box with the lid snapped tight.
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