broken promises and
scarred legs.
how did i end up this way?
shaky hands and
an empty stomach,
screaming for something
to digest.
whether it be
an insult or cotton.
anything to make the
noise stop.
i've been jittering for
three hours now
and i'm doubting-
maybe nothing ever
gets better
but maybe
we all just get
better at pretending-
everything seems okay.
see that boy in math class,
the one with the heart of glass.
the quiet one who wears sweaters all year round.
guess what i found out?
he is just like me in a way,
he does art too.
he is addicted to his cavas
and his brushes too.
but our art has a twist,
the brushes are the razors
and our canvas is a wrist-
or maybe it's a thigh,
or maybe it's a hip.
all i know about art
is they can't
stitch up the canvases at
the art gallery:
'down the road'.
but maybe that's the
way it should be.
maybe not all of us artists are
supposed to be.
so every night i lock my bathroom door i paint.
i paint until i start to get drowsy,
im falling down some,
i faint.
you remember the boy in
math class, well he
just took the breath
that was his last.
he went to the art gallery,
the one i keep talking about.
and the last thing he said was,
"the best paintings have tragic stories. not fairy tails"
maybe he's right,
not all paintings have
beautiful stories behind them.
