rough

i'm sitting here thinking of a way to begin myself
without eating glass and tripping over
pen strokes that weren't quite right
in the first place. so i will lower

[whisper]

and tell you that nothing drips like paint.
in slow decent smooth fluid lacquer flowing out of my pores,

[rearranged]

re-layering,
relaying countless chips in my character

[flawless?]

flaws, under inch thick covered
and you've never quite seen the first coat, even though my brush strokes have been lacking...
lacking precise movements along lines, swift deftness to smear better words
crawling about my eyes
making your nerves a pale blue

[to touch]

and my skin an off white tone spackled with gray.
shallow breaths mixed
in deep skin sensations,
over tones fading in complexity.

[more so]

so i'll sit and i'll wait with brush in hand
and a rusted bucket by my side.
i will slow...lower...and whisper
things that i dare not pour on you.

[dare to only confess...]

in the darkest flooding hours.