brush in hand, the bold colors amplify her art,

masterful control over the fluidity of her words.

she strokes scarlet lips, the scent of saffron, the hickory ground,

the texture of pumpkins on the 31st, the ebony figure of “the scream.”

iridescent strokes — quicken, wheeze, agitate — turn to slashes;

papers crumpled, brushes wet, palette dirtied: into her backpack.

the wind whispers pretty today, tickling her back. pack

of classmates outside too; they hated her colorful art

that reeked of creativity they couldn’t attain. they slashed

her scarlets into a light coral, her ebony into brittle graying words,

her umber ground in two — gleeful hearing her abyss of screams.

colors gone, papers torn, her spirit dies to the ground.

tangled earbuds and ruined papers tumble to the ground,

her dirtied reds, browns, and oranges spill out of her backpack,

like the sounds spilling out her mouth in the evening, screams

that lingered and were forever remembered, yet colors of her art

so easily forgotten. it was easy to describe in words:

tomato-red flowers, mahogany house / hard when slashed.

she ripped out a fresh sheet of paper, trying to forget the slashes.

taking out her colors, they spilled and stained the ground;

they were no longer lips, saffron, pumpkins — no words

came out to fight back. she shoved the colors back into the backpack.

the paper was empty, too, spilt colors and slashes were no art

at all. remembering earlier in the day, the sky pierced by her screams.

another day, another person to see; she screams,

for her painted flowers wilt and butterflies die, death by slashes;

starting with the petals and wings, but unable to finish the art.

they come over to my table again, looking at me like ground

meat — i am. talking, pushing, shoving papers in my backpack.

they laugh, i think i say something, incomprehensible words.

i should, need to, must, use my words,

but alas, they are drowned with screams,

crumpled papers, dirtied colors in my backpack.

gaping lacerations of the papers wail, the slashes

dividing her drawings, colors sinking to the ground.

harsh scratches and outlines scatter through her art.

my backpack is empty, no words

or beautiful art, only shrill screams

and slashes; red on the ground.