She was cold..At this point in time i was sure she would have had the posibility to die from hiportermia.
..Oh,how could an Artist suffer so much? Honestly..It was bisare seing this goddes-like figure,this person that I would sell my soul and bones to become like be in this stage.
..She felt shame,she really did,rambling and going on and on about how ,,patetic" she is (she isn t,really) and how she s sorry I have so see her like this.
..But I didn t see what she saw.
I didn t saw what she called a ,,worthless alcoholif who was just like her father and wanted to die"..I saw a beautiful Artist who wanted to write literature..Who liked leather,who was so cheerfull and beautuful all the time that suffered from her secret.
..And a poem is a poem and art is art but who am I to divulge someones secret who is so hurt that drank untill she couldn t walk..?
..And she couldn t walk,really.I was trying my best to carry her from the bed to the bathroom,from the shower to the toilet.
She repeteated how she ,,couldn t walk or see"...
..It was like she had no bones,falling apart in my arms like a rag doll,trying so hard to read her beloved book,only,it was upside down.
..It was strange,really.It was so strange to.hold her,to walk her,to explain were everything is,tapping it,to give her either boilling hot or ice cold water because she wanted to desperatly to ,,wake up"
..It was so strange how she vomited,and I didn t..How I could hold it.
And this us not a methaphore..It was so strange to not puke while someone else did,well,because,my stomach is a trainwreck.
...She had wide eyes looking at me from behind the showers transparents walls, starying into my sould with her as she banged her arms on it.
..I was calling her name often to help.her brain continue function.
I was often trying my best to hold her in such way she wouldn t drown in her own puke
..At multiple times I read for her because she wanted so much to,i Guess,escape reality into the books words
...Sociopath
Whom?
Me.
I cleaned the puked floor,I got all of her puke on my good skirt and shirt,the only shirt I have had left,I got wet trying to make sure she doesn t draw in her shower,i boilled my hand with the hot water
.. Everything I said and more and the only thing I was thinking was ,,.. This is an artist who suffers,this is the purest form of art and human emotion"
..I was fascinated by it.
...I was fascinated how she still hsd the allure of a goddes,of a reissance painting while puking,crying and reading upside down books
..she fascinates me so much.
..I feel honored,really..I feel honored she said she finds herself in my poems.
..She..In my little words
I hope she didn t save this small book
.i hope she won t find this because god knows how much she s gonna hate me and herself.
..but honestly,I need to write this
..I need to make a symbolistic drawing because she opened my eyes.
..Because This is human.
Because looking and acting so perfect yet having episodes like these
..This is human
This is flaw
This is what I see when I say ,,goddes" or ,,god"
..She s so.imperfect that she s perfect.
With her wet hair and smudged mascara,big wide eyes and a rag-doll like.body
With hands purple because of the cold i couldn t get her out of yet
With blood all ober her feet,with tears,with an upside down book in hands,with shame
This is human
This is acceptamce
This is the beauty in the ugly,the prettuest of beautys
..And I am crazy for writing this
I am a sociopath
But I m also an artist
An artist who finds herself in the goddeses verbal words as much as the goddes finds herself in my written ones.
