My eyes drink haltingly the lines, cautiously sipping slowly, my nose wrinkled with the tang of bad medicine, unnecessary lumpy liquid, and he waits for comment, like this week the taste has improved.
But no, the flavor remains the same -though this is the best I have had of him- withered acidic parchment, black edges scrolling bloody ink.
And you can tell, he doesn’t see the lack of effort, it is so easy to paint in dark colors.
Though he bleeds for it, it is less a sacrifice and more an affection, its cost is Nothing.
I want to teach him that death does not grow; you will not see a seed sprout in dead earth, but like his dead fingers, he has dead ears, he hears nothing, but the scratching of his death pen.