Draining Paint

It's hard to find a balance

Between continuity

And the every growing weight that

Tirelessly

Chips the paint away.

Wait–no,

I’ve never been chipped away

From the weight I carry.

I look down at myself and see nothing.

The color drained, pouring out of me in thick waves.

Only for me to realize that this climb is a canvas.

My feet walk up the blank space.

I am the paint for another’s painting.

I am the painter, 

Sanding away my skin to create.

They bleach me just for their journey 

To be a vivid mural. 

One that used each of my steps,

Each of them as strokes of movement

To cling hope and emotion to the colors

Spilling on the page.

And even as my last color from my lips,

My hair,

My eyes,

Is gone,

I drag my feet just a bit further.