He dipped his fingers in my tears.

and the blood seeping...from..


my eyes...... tainted my face. 

He began going over my lips....
my eyes silent,    confused,   ....


....innocent.

Unknowing how sacrificial paint was.
One line.
One line, from the edge of my mouth,

to the middle of my tongue...closed shut.

He began painting my fury with his clamourous grunts.

The more the fury ran 

it ran from my legs up

Towards my face.

But I sank

It didnt show, 

My face was blank.

His fingers sealed over my mouth. Its my sin..

attached Teeth on my painted grin

"Cheese!", as his hand trails down my back....in the family picture

Pictures pictures, are still lies
still lies.

Paintings have roots 
pleading......


.                          .......pleading
for the paint to become wet again

That I may be able to open my mouth,


My fury.