shove a paintbrush up your ass

you fucked my heart
like a colouring book:
blank pages, ripped,
thrown across the outline
of the bed or the balcony,

contamined by a chunk of green wax
scribbling a monochromatic platitude.
trace the veins with a felt-tip marker;
maybe a ballpoint pen the size of the
pacific ocean, the colour of the moon;
maybe an empty crayon box beneath
a toddler's pillow fort --- that kid, you
stole his crayons to colour something
else you stole.  but he couldn't colour
in the lines, and neither can you.  you
cut them, lying all the way to the front
of the queue.  you cut the silhouettes,
the ones you're too lazy to add red to.

and it reminds me of how you
cut my blackandwhite arteries
and leave a trail of unfinished
cartoons on perforated scraps
of paper, ergonomically wrong
and adorned with dried up ink
to match the dried up emotion
you filtered through.

add red because you lit my soul on fire.
add blue because you're like cyanide.
add yellow because your eyes shine
like a billion goddamned suns,
and now we've got all the
primary colours for a secondary affair.
now add a whole fucking rainbow,
and meet me where the gold should be.
stop halfway and turn back.
you're colourblind, anyway.