Fingers dipped,
smearing the brilliant colors 
into brown swirls of shit-stained mess.
Paints only vibrant in separation.
Instead the child’s digits,
are dripping wet 
and poised for the kill.
Her mission: to blur lines.
Rainbow rouge-stained fingertips,
soiling frilly pink clothes, 
white carpeted floors,
coloring book pages. 
Former art and beauty, 
of suburban tidy
transformed into soiled disorder
at the reach of the small hand. 

She is still the same-- that little girl
now a grown woman in form alone.
Hands smoother, manicured and adorned.
Her world is the artists glossy dream,
Relationships beautiful--
Vibrant and lively
in their original separation.

Composed and collected,
packaged and presented.
But compelled by her own 
feverishly inexplicable streak of 
masochism-- she destroys the good.
Twisted and sickening
she bewilders them all.
Her mission: to blur the lines.
Overlapping and muddling, 
Mixing and rejecting.
Toying with helplessly
trusting hearts, 
sweaty grasping hands, 
red swollen lips.
Until nothing is left, but 
brown-shit colored pages.