I’m asking you to keep your fingers away because all I see is the invisible trigger your thumb is ready to press.

“healed scars don’t need trigger warnings.”

-something I heard somewhere that stayed in my mind for a long time afterwards

***

The paint wasn’t preserved properly

It chips into my memory 

It’s been long enough that it’s begun to fall apart

Time has creased the edges and scratched the surface, wanting to feel

What once lied beneath

An artist’s hand

I can see the paint he left on the canvas

The way he painted with his hands

The way he pinned

The picture down

Capturing it in all its beauty

They look different 

I know they’re different

My body has memories carved into its muscles

They escape my mind like reflexes

They writhe and fight and ache to hide 

Run away

Paint strokes staining permanent cuts

I can’t see the image of 

Myself

A flinch 

I didn’t even notice I’d dodged

A punch

That didn’t exist 

This canvas is beaten into 

She’s bruised with color 

Lavender and maroon

Let it heal over 

Let the blood scab, crust, and close 

Let the scars form so the wound can disappear, leaving

A ridge of acrylic only fingertips can trace

It’s messy

My process, my attempts 

Me trying to create something else

Oil smeared on hands 

Smeared onto others

Careful, don’t touch the art

The painting won’t preserve properly 

I’m already a mess 

You’ll get it on yourself 

Let it dry a pretty picture of what

I wanted it

To be, what is art if not

A beautiful lie,

Trying to be something it is not

I want to remember the beauty that he wasn’t so I can be a person

I’m not

He can’t rip your canvas any more

I know this

That year, those months 

You’re here looking back 

Use your lips blow the air into words 

Into truths 

Let the paint dry 

Let the wounds become scars, let them heal so that

They don’t need trigger warnings