Monday 3 April 2017

Creative writing | April 2017

This poem is actually an older one, from before Christmas, but I've not shared it anywhere so I thought I'd pop it on here. As always it's a first draft so it's rough and unfinished and pure but I hope you like it anyway.


Empty canvases lie, untouched, in the corner of the room – their corners sharp and unforgiving, their surfaces white and clean and smooth. The light is dim: too dim for an art class, but not too dim to see my curves, my freckles, the downy hairs that cover the arch of my stomach. Persian red silk drapes across my shoulders, shadows falling on sharp collarbones, fabric snaking its way over the contours of my hips. Apricot curls frame my face, the bare lightbulb swaying overhead illuminating each delicate crevice of my skull. The stage is exactly eleven inches off the ground, worn mahogany wood peppered with flecks of paint. I am covered in alabaster skin, and my eyes are parakeet-green dotted with ginger and gold and vanilla. Nervous footsteps fill the room, blue suede shoes and heavy black boots on bare boards with rusted nails. Easels snap into place.

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