Exhibition: Self-portrait on canvas

Notice the artist’s index finger
Kissing the razor blade,
Stroking-
His eyes rolling
Into its bleeding white;

Screaming helps him concentrate
His finger on the rough cloth
Which trembles at the sight of blood
Digging in, pulling out
Thoughts; he never liked sharing words,
But he’s letting himself pour
Thick red syllables
That clog too quickly-
His eyes roll back again to direct another kiss,
They won’t return until they find the right tone
Running from the middle finger
Hissing to the world,
He paints his eyes, lips, not ears;
He is tired of hearing questions
And hates the people who ask-

Skin rips, his stroke angry and
Too verbose for the canvas,
Unusable;
Only a peck this time on the ring
To get those fine lines-
Red hair for passion,
An invitation to see the lies he kept crawling
In his head,
But not over his eyes
Left open to see your reaction;
And the pinky too he bites
For the blurry blush touch up before
Picture time;

Wait!

A saliva finish,
Tears
For perfection.