Alabaster Canvas

Coping in Color

Alabaster Canvas

Heart blistered,

savagely picked apart

by the buzzards that covertly

portrayed your love

in this tragedy.

Puncture wounds

peppered among the blisters

in the hundreds maybe

made by claws

of betrayal.

Silence invades empty spaces

as my brain screams




I wish you no harm.

It is me

I wish to tear down,

piece by piece,

total deconstruction

until there is nothing,

and I become


Locked in the bathroom

I fight with my


I avoid the mirror.

I curl up in the corner,

fucking up the

feng shui.

The tears come now,

hot and salty,

they run like

angry little streams,

down my cheeks,

streaking my onyx eye liner.




I peel off

my black sweater,

sitting in just my

polka dot bra

and ripped up jeans.

Eyes closed, I trace

the scars of prior





My arms marked

more than that of a junkie.

I need release from

the intensity

of the pain.

The darkness I feel

a stark contrast

to my white skin.

I unwrap myself,

my long legs

now stretched out

in front of me on the cool tile,

like that of a giraffe,

you would say.


Knowing what I

need to do,

I reach for my bag,

pulling it in to my lap,

as my ravaged heart

begins to pick up rhythm,

providing a soundtrack

for what is to come.

I feel around

my college text books,

that seem so

ridiculous right now,

feeling for the

familiar velvet.

My fingertips

brush across it,

and I feel a small

smile cross my lips,

even as the tears

still rest upon

my soiled cheeks.

I grab the red bag

and pull open

the draw strings,

spilling the

contents on to the floor.

Pens and markers

of all colors and sizes

reds and blues

pinks and purples

oranges and greens.

Each one

a character

in this production of healing.

I choose a teal blue pen,

removing the cap,

I bring the tip to the

soft skin of my left arm,

and begin to draw.

I draw circles of all sizes,

some solitary,

some touching

in clusters.

They remind me of bubbles.

I opt for pink

to fill in my circles,

carefully staying

within the lines,

my arm slowly filling

with beautiful color.

I do not see

any of my scars,

nor do I feel

the ache you

planted inside of me.

All I see and feel

is the magic of

the color,

all dancing

on my alabaster canvas.

Vanessa Jasek
Vanessa Jasek
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Vanessa Jasek

I write words.

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