I woke up in the morning to the cold sun shining dark rays through my grime-coated blinds.
The tops of the dead trees were like metal rakes, combing softly through the quickly moving clouds overhead.
I fumbled my way to the speckled mirror to gaze at a cracked reflection,
segmented and unaligned. Bizarre, perplexing, twisted, tired.
A masterpiece of Picasso.
Was it my own? It looked to strange to be mine.
My paintbrushes and paints were lined up in a row. Red, yellow, green, blue, black.
Bright eyes and a rosy smile, I painted on with the careful strokes of a pointed brush.
For my dignity.
You had your arm around her.
I had to remind myself
that sometimes all I can do is paint my way through the day
before I wash it off again at night so I can start over tomorrow.
So I'll wake up every morning
and paint smiles on the cardboard walls. I'll paint the sun; I'll paint the sky, blending my own shades of sadness into something beautiful until I find the right shade of happiness
But right now, I'll just paint. I'll paint until I fill in every crack and cover every shade of grey.
Some hearts were meant to be broken.