Smeared in Neon Shadows
Her face,
dripping pink like wet paint,
the edges melting into black.
Yellow eyes catch the light,
predatory,
or maybe just tired.
The air is too loud,
buzzing with fluorescent hums,
colors that scream
but never touch.
It feels like a warning,
but no one looks up.
Her lips,
too soft, too glossy,
part just enough
to let the silence in.
Everything about her is deliberate:
the chaos, the smears,
the way she doesn’t care
that she’s bleeding art.
And in the distance,
the city keeps grinding,
grinding,
until it’s smooth.
