Working weary palms into a lather,

wrung from havoc wreaked by her hummingbird mind.

A grenade of ghastly hues ground together

until deep jade and forest greens highlighted

each grain of her sandy gaze.

As steeped in symbolism as the burning nun,

society seemed deadset on seeing her become a saintly victim.

With a single violent stroke,

she shed the mask she'd worn that evening,

like a clown deprived of sleep.

A circus acrobat, perhaps, or tight-rope walker;

painted garishly in pancake makeup.

Whatever you desire her to be, she revolts;

repulsed by the men that seek to destroy her with control.

She is the spectator, but also the spectacle!

A sight for sore eyes,

as the paint spilled on her pallette

poured into the pain inside her pageant heart.