spilled paint

and I wonder how often you gaze into the layered canvases that reside within you, because I tend to look at them too closely too often. and I’m pretty sure I see all the things you don’t. all the bad and the good that makes you abstract, I wish you were simple. I’m always reading between your lines but they’re more like scribbles; like your four-year old self decided to paint over all the good the world had planned for you, and you accidentally spilled paint over all the good I gave you. and now you’re in bed staring at your ceiling and my name stays in your phone but never spoken aloud. blank spaces and the fog has you lost when my invisible hands have been visible this entire time. and I’ll always wish you the best but I don’t think I want that for you anymore either. your four-year old self spilled paint over me too.