False Sincere Flowers

Culpability of desires

“Would it have been selfish if I wished that I had just never painted of you?”, you blatantly whispered as a failing cry.

My brain is scattered all around the floor, and I am stripped naked as an empty canvas; yet I am right in front of a mirror, and your hands are bare, so eagerly forced to give me more melanin because I was lacking the contrast. You would tell all your peers and promises, that you know your child like the back of your palm even though you only desired to unveil me completely to use the lavish lavender of my bones — absolutely and resolutely young: an experimental life. You ripped me thirty-nine totally different alternatives from the paper you held like contracts that only reflect back to you each as a mistake because I was full of flaws and imperfections.

You imbued me as a hibiscus, framed me like roses, and illustrated me on another panel, cradling each and every different color of flowers without you feeling any sympathy for using my raw lavender oil. My body would reject, my eyes would cry, and my hands flailed, dreading to touch my canvas — but you coerced me to use the blood you intravenously collected from me in my sleep that was mixed with the indifferences I had. What was it you wanted — a different color, a closer shade, another flower, a walking endless parade? No, I was your artificial innate flowers.

I was the one you would hang on a wall to impress, I was the one you wanted me to be a person cut from another cloth; to be a performance in which you endeavored. I am an expressive design, an academic prodigy, a musician, a wide range of gunshots, and every single subtlety of the biggest yet smallest human feelings and capabilities. This is not living nor surviving but rather being a master of none, a mask of rendition, a doll with seven perfect limbs, a flower with every petal of different species — anything and everything except a lavender in the natural surface of my own. I am only one, but why does it feel like I am just a sale for a collection? And then people would grow tired, and I needed to show something else. Of course, I only live to perform.

You put your tools in a chest you would leave right beside where you rest, and that is exactly when I can only be true to myself — a lavender. Only the nights know how I am nothing like you carved me. And when you asked if you were selfish, I looked in the mirror again and saw you. You, who only wanted satisfaction out of the perfume of my heart and hid exactly who I am. You did not paint me, I painted what you had wished to be — a performance you can never be.

To live just to be a performance is a reflection of the spectators, but to utterly live is to be with no regards.