I let the dark pass by me.

The color does not exist there.

Devoid of all that might bring me joy.

I don’t want that brush to belong to me.

I have owned it before and the splinters remain under my skin.

A momento to remember to not buy again no matter the shine of the black.

***

It is thorns thrown at my flesh.

I don’t have to grip them tighter.

They will never bloom or have use to me.

I could fashion a weapon from the husk to throw back.

I would just end up pricking my own fingers deeper.

I don’t want the scars to last longer than the time to sunrise.

***

It isn’t that I don’t learn.

I avoid those darker colors now and quickly pull the thorns from my flesh.

I let the colors fade into obscurity.

The thorn throwers to face plant on their own vines.

In time they will disappear.

Destroyed by their own cycle.

***

Why do you grip the paintbrush so tightly?

For what reason do you continue to throw thorns back?

You are bloody and broken but don’t seem to realize it.

Your own given damage exceeded what the colors and thorns did long ago.

I plead with you to let both of them go.

I beg for you to release it.