Paint Drying

By: Isabelle Morgan

I think we are all filled with paint

A uniquely colored paste

But some of us are born with a slant

Stand and exist a little crooked

So this pain

I mean paint

Drips and seeps out at an irregular rate

Decorating the skin

Complicating a face

Confusing those positioned straight

I like the mess of an angle

And tilt my head to make 

The curve bend even further

So my paint can flow out of every pore

So I get to see all the shades there are 

And the ways they’ll settle along my scars

The strands are aware

Arching and twisting

Combining with other bending 

Stray pieces

Frizzing in the clouds of smoke

They consume as my companion

But the wind isn’t causing this motion 

This disagreement to coordinate a direction

Because a pillow means less friction

Then the brain at the root of their conception 

I have sprouts of continual confusion

Shave and start with more intention?

Or release and let grow?

Forgiving the head stuck in this commotion