The Canvas of My Soul

I painted my body onto this canvas.

Blood-streaked, blistered, alive.

One eye burns, a furnace of rage,

the other—a hollow machine,

watching. Judging. Numb.

The colours scream:

Reds. Yellows. Oranges.

Fire clawing at black.

Darkness—

suffocating the light.

Hair spirals. Chaos.

each strand a scream,

each curl a haunting thread

tangled in grief.

My lips parched. Cracked.

Silent.

There is no story to tell.

Only the ash of my life

rubbed on my face.

This isn’t a canvas of tenderness.

I don’t paint love.

Love is for the untouched,

the unscarred.

I paint agony,

each stroke heavier.

Serpents—rise.

writhing through the cracks.

Whispering,

twisting around my ribs,

demanding breathe.

I want—silence.

I’ve seen their faces in the dark.

Taunting me with promises,

coiling around my wrists,

pulling me deeper,

but I keep painting.

The paint clots.

Thick like blood.

Dragging

across the canvas.

Sealing wounds.

Before they bleed.

Each corner holds weight.

Scent of Smoke.

Silent screams.

Metallic grief.

It sits heavy

in my chest.

One more breath.

One more day.

I force air

into my lungs.

Inhaling this life.

This flicker of defiance.

The canvas—stares back.

Raw. Unrelenting.

A reflection.

Of everything.

It doesn’t heal.

Doesn’t save.

Just exists.

Like I do.

In the throbbing

of what’s left.

When the paint dries—

it doesn’t solidify.

It drips—drips like venom.

Trailing my fingers.

Staining the air.

The canvas—

doesn’t stare back.

It laughs.

Hollow. Rattling.

Carving into me.

I claw—at its edges.

It swallows my hands.

Pulling me inside.

Pulling me under.

I am the paint now.

Thick. Choking.

It pours from my mouth.

Drowning my screams

in its bitter metallic flood.

Serpents—feast.

Tearing through ribs.

Their teeth—sink deep.

They hum.

With delight.

My name—

fractured. Distorted.

Unrecognizable.

The canvas edges—

curl inward.

Blackened with fire,

collapsing into itself.

Taking me.

When the flames die—

nothing.

No canvas.

No colours.

No weight.

Only an echo—

in the void.

Twisting

into silence.

~ Eeta Noire

A visceral portrait of chaos and vulnerability. Fiery reds and suffocating blacks clash, embodying the struggle between searing pain and fierce resilience. One eye burns with incandescent rage, while the other is a cold, bionic gaze, watches with chilling detachment, revealing the deep internal conflict. Wild, spiraling hair—each strand a silent scream—embodies both anguish and an untamed spirit.