one hundred-forty eight.

painters (k)night.

she stole a drip of her own tears,
dabbed it on the spot that was stained
attempting to remove the remains of
yesterday that had calloused her canvas.
she scrubbed as hard as she could to
rid her canvas of the fingertips that
trekked ever so gently across, leaving
its prints, one by one by one.
she scrubbed so hard to remove every
interaction the tips of those fingers made
with the brush , she wanted it all to go away.
because she knew the painting shouldn't have stayed.
she knew it was too late to paint the night away.
she needed to omit every trace of every print
that was left on her canvas.