Color Scheme: Murder

the blood is falling from her fingertips,

like a paintbrush stalled – posed in mid-air

the picture is in her head, but its hybrid powers

bruise her wrists,

and no matter how much she strains against the predestined

biology slithering through her bones

the undead droplets skip across

the tattered cushions.

her art is the flesh she weaves through her

aged loom

and the entrails and blood spurts coating her walls inspire her;

she calls her color scheme: Murder.

she holds the paintbrush between her teeth;

her smock is not splattered, but soaked.

she cuts the fabric from the futon and

hangs it from the wall.

she sits down with peppermint tea and admires her art as

sirens sound in the distance.

she burns her tongue on the hot liquid, flicking it cool.

her death decor makes the police scream.

most critics speak of the life that art produces

but she sees so much more beauty in death

isn’t the inevitable so much more intriguing

than the simplicity of inception.