sore joints and watercolor paints

the skin of my knuckles

is white under pale moonlight

and the midday sun.

you said I have the hands

of an artist who never

leaves their bedroom.

and you were right.

sometimes,

they are stained with paints,

too.

I want to paint every aching joint,

every technicolor bruise of mine,

in every color I can’t see.

dress me up neon,

color me in ultraviolet shades.

these bones are too old for

someone so young,

but haven’t you seen the

things they’ll give life to?

please, love,

can’t I be the same colors

as these fragile things I make, too?