She Might Be A Purist

She was like an artist, they said.
At the beginning, she would start out with just lines--
Random lines that end up like a mess.
But after looking at these lines for a while,
You realize, she's weaving her magic.
The clipped ends meet and the
Sharp turns curve
Colors start to appear and above them all is a
Maddening red;
Of course, there's also a piercing blue
And scorching-hot auburn and
Pale, gunmetal grey.

It looks different now.

The image looks larger now.
It's not just swift strokes but
Slow, calculated strikes.
Long lines of patterned lunges and
Graceful curves of a fist's jab
And the splatter of
Blood
All over the arena's floor,
Her off-white canvas.
She looks at her opponent through
Her red-orange fringe and
Feels as though it is a fiery veil,
Obscuring her view;
His eyes are ashen, gray
And dull but she doesn't underestimate him
Because she feels that just
By dying, he's already won.
The final blow is almost awarded and
The painting is complete
But
From a distance she sees
Cobalt-blue eyes that kill
And for a moment she falls

Falls
And falls

But she knows she needs to do this,
Wants to--she badly wants to do this,
And just like how an artist reaches
Enlightenment at the rarest of occasions,
She finishes her work in the midst of
Her opponent's plea for mercy
The crowd's deafening cheers and
Her own mind's swirling thoughts
She clenches her fist at her work,
"Disgusting,"
And accepts that she's no artist.

- - - - -
She was like an artist, they said.
And he agrees.
Because she vandalizes your body
And steals the words off your mouth
To feed it to herself,
She paints you a picture but
Kills you before you can understand it,
She picks up the shards of your soul
And creates a new one
But stores it for safekeeping
Because she knows,

She knows it's not hers to use.
Not hers to own.
Not hers.

But it's too beautiful to leave lying on the ground.
- - - - -