The Broken Era, Sarah Anne Stinnett

When feeling depressed I paint recklessly.

Iridescent havoc explodes upon

my canvas, a squinched orange or tomato

perhaps vermilion, I stab the fruit.

I break the fruit. Now perpetually

pungent I punish the fruit. It does not

struggle, my vexation overpowers.

At night in sleep the ocean beckons to
my tears, Come home. Come to rest my brothers.

I do not protest, freely they paddle

journeying back, down my cheek to the sea.

Then I paint big buildings with the lights on.

Big and bright and square and the lights are on.

Cut in half, as sandwiches, are they plunge
not yet smashed or squelched, static in midair

before the boom and the lights are all on.

Obliterating a world I create

I play God with fusions of rouge and blue.

Inextricable struggles consume my

acrylic nightmares. Tomorrow I’ll paint

a ship, capsizing. The sea is its tears.

Next, a girl with her eyes closed. Seemingly

untainted I’ve painted myself with no damage.

For now I’ve realized, I am the broken.

art by Sarah Anne Stinnett