malalai khan

The canvas is blank
and my paintbrushes lie
side by side,
old vinyl bristles breaking apart. 

An empty jar of medication 
filled with water
stands near the cracked palette.

The watercolours are faded,
and almost gone. 

A newspaper from 2016 
is spread underneath
on the table. 

An article reads out 
“Peace Talks with Terrorists”
while another shows a recipe
for a Valentine’s Day treat. 

The sun is going down,
as shadows play upon
the off-white wall,
grey handprints poking out. 

The curtains billow
beside my face,
caressing my wet cheeks
like a handkerchief.

And I stare, clueless,
into the empty canvas.