The Shin Painter

The rocks hitting my ankles draw bruises upon my bones.

While you watch me run through an endless maze.

I'm wheezing .

But my breathe pattern is nothing new.

I am accustomed to the ache between my ribs which divides the tissues And sucks them back to bed with each labored intake.

And exhale.

I cannot keep up with the speed of their hands clapping together. My feet hit the ground at a frightening pace but i do not think of the blisters eating the bottoms of my heels. The skin that bubbles and bleeds is but a sign that i truly am devoted. Not a soul living or spectral could do harm to one who's blood runs only for them. Correct.

Yes.

Bruises. So many bruises. They have taken time, in the past, to draw out each and every one on my depleted body. The pencil running a thin line over my muscles, sketching a way up my thighs, to my waist and down my shoulders, reaching past the small of my back.

And then painting, oh the painting. The colors blurred together on mocha colored skin in the summer months and faded into warmed pale flesh while the storms raged in winter. Now my bruises are from a harsh, spontaneous hand. Metaphorically. For the papers only rest on my collarbones and fall each time i trip in the dirt.

Alas, i have created them myself. They only watch my performance, stumbling along the walls in the dark like a blinded mouse would into a trap. No one is there to sit on my legs and draw the most beautiful accidents on my skin. Why wait, for I am not codependent on any soul.

They have no time to use their skills to cause the internal bleeding they so enjoyed inflicting. No time to stir the paints in tiny tin dishes while i watch with glistening eyes. Fully infatuated with the idea of their lovely fingers gently grasping the brushed which leave marks on my frame.

My image of love is but the pain from staring with eyes rolled back while listening to the swirl of paint on my shins. The idea that love is only for those willing to sacrifice every other desire is blasphemy. It is not. It is for the most daring. The most cunning. The ones able to combine their deepest secrets. Willing to pull their bodies in endless laps around in a room waiting for the beloved to call to them.

I am not in love. It is a narcotic drug. And i am no addict. except for the days when one might whisper to me that i am their muse. There is no purer form of amorality than that of devotion. A dog does not know its master has slaughtered a life when they return home. They know only of the bond shared.

That is the way i feel* for them. My words are jumbled and take up far too much room. And my feet are sore. My shins are sore. My arms and legs and hands are sore. The physical exertion i put out for them is but a taxing experience. I cannot run forever, for i shall faint into the dust. But it is not love which drives my madness. It is the sinful devotion i am a slave to.