Trompe L'eoil

There are handcuffs on every moment. Doesn't mean they're guilty. Innocent until we're not. Innocent every morning. Guilty by night.

Painting doors in places they don't belong. In eyes of glass. In windows sealed shut. Scratching in the void. As easy as touching pen to paper with a frost-bitten hand. As easy as keeping the blank page close enough to grab. Making sure there is always something hard beneath to lean against.

Little looks of crayon in his glance. Cornflower blue and copper. Static demons trapped in the hells we name after euphoria. Small stones in his throat. Games of hopscotch on splinted shins.

Numbers big enough to see even with our eyes closed.

Pictures I never knew I could draw telling me who I was.