When I open up, they don’t
like what they see,
so paint spills from
the sutures. Picasso knew nothing of
blue. The sunflowers grow
away from me, and the chains are
restless. I was pastoral, pariah, never
the poster boy for proper behavior.
Belligerent and broken, bashful
without the token of your affections to keep me
grounded. I’m holy
and hemorrhaging, tired
of holding onto
neurons that won’t hold me.
Sorry, still
brilliant, I’m burning with a mouth alight,
looking for a well.