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I am a canvas.

My incodite fabric intertwined with your chipped paint.

You stare at me.

Ingluvious.

Wondering what to impaste upon me next.

What to impleach my cracking design with.

You create thick strokes of black in a desperate attempt to hide my thin ianthine ones.

With your hand, you frantically scratch your charcoal down the length of me,

Hastily trying to indite something worthy of a second glance.

You stand back, unease clouds your eyes and anger cloaks you like a fire.

My edges begin to ignify.

The illiquation of oranges and yellows licking their way up your creation until,

I am engulfed in a plume of smoke and flames.

When the smoke clears,

All that is left of me is an incubus of ashes.

Incompossible with you.

Irredivivous and nothing more than infumate remnants of what I used to be.

I was once a canvas.

With your paint intertwined with my fabric.