Beige for my cheeks
and maybe a little red for my lips;
my neck is pale as it leans sideways,
the greens and blues popping
underneath the fountain pen that's
about to stab in. The fingers holding it
are painted and I abhor them.

I wish to shade. White, then,
for the light and for my tears too
as they roll down my cheeks,
into the hand that cradles my head —
yes, the same one that tilts it.
I think the contrast is too stark.
Their styles don't fit.

Hands are hard and I draw another
gripping — should it bruise or no?
That's mean, I think as I put in the details,
hating this hand yet needing it. Body horror
is comforting so I set that aside and draw another,
hands, neck, flesh
melting away like wax.