I’ve Got Questions for You and Your Paint-Stained Hands
You angrily splashed paint on your canvas, what did it do to you? You say, everything from the pain I felt when you were a child to the ongoing agony I have aching in my heart, you say, the canvas is the cause of it. You frown upon the red-streaked canvas. You look more tired than ever.
Did a simple canvas do this to you? You had no response.
We both know your pain is not because, and also not only because, of the canvas, and yet, you swing at it once more with your paintbrush. The bristles are crooked, it’s not like when I last saw it. You always kept them in pristine condition, what happened?
You angrily glance at me. People change and I am one of them, you whispered, grief-stricken.
You took your feelings out on a mere paintbrush and blank canvas? I kept on questioning you, I can see your tears start pooling from the corner of your eyes. You’ve never been good at controlling your tears, even when you need to. You want to stop and yet, they keep ongoing. They’re not stopping anytime soon and I worry that all that’ll be left of you would be a husk if you continue.
You frustratedly put another streak of bright red, your questions are not helping at all. If anything, you’re making it worse. You’re crying more.
I apologise, my dear, for I cannot provide you with the comfort that you need. I am here to question, to be curious, to understand. I cannot help asking you, even if it makes you worse than before.
And yet, you do not hear my apologies for I never said them. Even if I did, we both know they’d be meaningless. You always brush it off and resume crying. All I can do is watch you with a pitiful expression.
You look smaller than before, less hopeful. Where is that gleam in your eyes? That bounce in your step? That happiness in your smiles?
It’s all gone, you weep, it wasn’t stolen from me and yet it’s all gone.
But, my dear, it was taken. How about all those times you have been pushed around? How about when you were grieving the death of yourself and yet, nobody helped? Those times you were vulnerable, how about that? Life and the people around you have stolen everything from you, not the canvasses you love painting on nor the paintbrush that brings you joy.
You wiped your tears, there’s no way of getting it back.
Perhaps that is true but you still are you. Though it is hard, this too shall pass. The canvas will not be reminiscent of the tears on your cheeks but rather the peacefulness that may you feel someday.
There’s nothing wrong with being sad, my love, but your sadness is bigger than others. You need to heal and live once more. It pains me to see you like this, your pieces are all over the floor. Some are even missing. I vow to help you rebuild yourself. I will help you until the sadness is gone from your life and only shall cheer remain.
It will always be a part of me, no matter what and how much I try, you sadly chuckle. It’s overbearing, heavier than any elephant. It looms over me.
I have no response. All I can do is kiss your paint-stained hands in a way that you'll understand that I still love you. You're imperfect and I am too.
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