FLESH

FLESH

It began with the taste of iron in the air, thick and wet.

The canvas was already alive, breathing, twitching, infected before I touched it.
I forced the red onto it with violence, with pressure, until the surface convulsed.

Layers built like tumors, collapsing, reforming, oozing.

My hand were filthy, dripping, shaking.
Tools shattered against the surface, paint ground into open wounds of fabric.
I pressed harder, deeper, until the material moaned.

No escape, no distance,

only flesh grinding against flesh.