Lost Little Artist.

It can all be summed up in a just a few fluid strokes. Lost blood darkening into white paper. Makeshift gauze swallows the pain. Holds the hole tight in its fist. As it slowly becomes that which it was meant to protect.

So many words wasted to say what the picture always did.

But it's the picture I can't look at. Can't let myself hear what it says.

A lifetime of dust and ashes. Broken glass not impeding. Shaky lines chase paths of memory into the thick forests where I cannot see. Curving with the shudder of my arm as it reaches toward something I know is there. They try to retreat, but unconsciously I push them forward.

It's as eager as any image is. Slave to a broken mind yearning for its freedom.

Papers everywhere. Distorted from waiting so long to be seen. Empty pens cough up their nothings.

Lost, little artist in her dark room. Swimming in the papers' disarray. So much black. And lines that never touch each other. Lost, little artist shuffles through her pictures, but never listens to them.

So afraid of what they might say.