People were her Passion

She believed herself to be an artist, I believed her at one point. How she was able to paint flowers and sunsets, and people. People were her passion. She painted the druggie who sells sex for a gram of cocaine, and the old man who drinks his coffee black at the local coffee shop on Sundays, and the little boy with autism that plays with the purple ball at the park, and the boyfriend that abused her canvas with purple smudges and scratches.

I believed her to be an artist, until I found her canvas bleeding and broken above a splash of red paint. Her canvas was damaged and she was dying. People were her passion because she wanted to be them and not this. A broken frame with a broken canvas. The canvas once white and covered with art is slashed and torn and this time it can't be put back together again. The red covers everything and I thought she was an artist.

19

Those nights they talked like confetti and too much coffee.
All at once and way too hot.
Those nights they talked like tattoos and heat attacks
Terribly painful and DEAD serious.
But they didn't mind because the world was their own.

Just like the Moon

She was just like the moon
a part of her was always hidden.

She hid from the things that were meant to make her strong
She hid from the things that were meant to bring her down.

Her pretty side was always bright and full of moonshine.
Her dark side was twisty and tangled
just like how she felt.