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paint like pain

Madhalasa Iyer

I want to dip my hands in paint again.
the feeling of the cold colors
as it consumes my fingers.
the feeling of solid as I
press my rough hands on the wall.
I watch as you ask,
Why are my fingers red?
and you wash your hands in water.
I rub my hands in my worn-out jeans and
I watch as you ask,
Where is my finger paint?
and you soak your fingers back in color.

I want to dip my hands in paint again.
but my walls are full.
coated in red handprints,
each finger devouring the other.
so I hope and I pray that
the colors like your memory,
like my jeans,
like your love,
like my pain,
fade.

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