almost done:

she trips over blank paper, smothering sheets in reckless strokes of beaming golden-yellow. splatters it over chairs and dollar bills, landing on top of her empty coke bottles and cans of seltzer. she grins. heart leaping. her feet imprint muddles colors of vivid winter across the concrete floor. 

she mutters to herself: little notes about green broccoli and scented markers. dips her fingers in paint. strokes the canvases. like how her little girl paints nails. striated. she kicks the yellow. too bright. only in red now. pummels the backs of the paintbrushes into the ruby liquid. smashing. flicking. ferocious. frowns. not enough.

she drags the canvas closer. scraping it across the floor, leaving a thin crimson trail. presses her palm into the paint, then onto the surface—one print, then another, like she’s taking attendance. she tilts her head. wrong.

she rummages for more red: lipstick tubes, dried cherries, the heel of a forgotten watercolor pan. crushing each one, grinding color into the fabric with the heel of her hand. breath quickening. knees vibrating. the room pulsing in and out.

steps back. squints. waits for the painting to speak.

nothing.

she lunges again.