By Lydia Browne and Cozette Calderon
Dipping my brush into water then paint, a drop runs out the outline.
I sigh at the imperfection;
I run my brush over the drip, but more paint smears.
An unintentional flick of the wrist and my frustration is displayed in a mass of blue.
So I smear some yellow, then purple, then magenta, teal, green, sapphire, maroon—
the hate of the game.
It is cacophony in color.
I fall on my back—
the ceiling with a spot that was slack drips drips drips on my forehead.
I tilt my head towards my colorful muddle, the splotch sludging down towards my eyes.
The spot spreading, becoming a cowl—a second before I’m blind
I see something beautiful.
I see an illustration of who I am…
an absolute mess.
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