The fruits

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by MK_Weber

by MK_Weber

I am a writer

I started thinking up little scenarios in my head

I have done this since I can remember

I now know this is how my little brain protected me from the bad things that were happening around me

It was how my mind tried to manage my sanity

I don't know how well that worked

Everyone knows the best writers are a little crazy anyways

I also have OCD

So I spent a lot of time trying to find ways to confess my thoughts in a way that wouldn't get me put away
I learned how to tell stories

Eventually I tore down the walls in my head

The ones that kept me safe

I rebuilt them with paper and ink and plot

I started writing

I wrote and rewrote

Edited and Edited and edited
And now I'm here
I'm 21 with nothing to show for my years at the keyboard
I write poems on napkins just to throw them away
I write novels in files I delete
I started to mutilate my mind long before my body
I am a painter
When my parents realized I wasn't good enough at anything they cared about I shut them off from the parts of me that I knew they wouldn't like
I had to protect myself from that kind of rejection because it's a hurt that I can't feel twice
My art used to win prizes and hang on exhibit room walls
And then a day I snapped
Not in a loud way
Not in a messy, showy way
Not even in a way that anyone would notice
Not unless you looked
Really looked I think if you saw me then you could see the defeat drip off of me and the sadness hovering in my eyes
I didn't break anything or yell or hit
I just folded my easel
Packed my brushes
And left my canvases
Now I'm 21 and I can't even remember what it felt like to enjoying my art
I do it to myself
I hurt myself in the worst way I can find
I delete my drafts
Throw out my flash drives
Toss my canvases
I hate myself
I hate everything I create
I hate my art
I hate my novels
I hate my stories
And characters
I hate these poems
But God I hate myself
Why am I this way
Why can I not just be better
Stronger
Why is my art never as good as it is in my brain
Why can I not finish this book!
Why will the words not come
Why will my hand not move the way I want it to
Why is this paint so thin and brush so wet
Why is this page still blank after so many hours
Why am I not good enough
I am 21 and I have nothing to show for my passions
I have studied the masters
I have read
I have written
Revised
I have sketched
I have traced
I have practiced and practiced and practiced
I have worked my hands bloody
And I have nothing to show
The fruits of my labor look back at me and mock
They tell me everything I already know
I am worthless and stupid
This is a waste of time and so am I
I delete another draft
I burn another painting
Fuck this
Fuck me
It's all pointless