People say, change the world with your art.

But what if the art I have inside me is tainted, the same as I am?

What if all I have to offer is twisted and soaked in the morbid and macabre.

What if the words I have to vomit, the gore-scape I have to paint, is laced with bloody barbed wire, twirling through the small glimmers of such agonizing beauty that it drips into porcelain until even the sun cannot bear to gaze upon it?

 

I don’t have time to sabotage anything else

But that isn’t true, is it?

 

I don’t have the heart to camouflage anymore pain.

But I’ll do it

Won’t I?

 

I don’t have any way

To speak

 

That is,

When you had me thinking

I was weak

 

Until I realized one night

I’m not responsible for your sight.

 

I’m sitting here telling true

You choose only to see light.

 

What happens when you

Find something else?

 

Still me

Always me

 

Waiting for someone

To see

 

But I won’t tell you that

 

Ah, that is the conundrum, is it not? The ache, the need to scream, to let it all out. To be free, fully come alive. To deny parts of me, well.

That’s not going to bring life to anything, now is it?

 

By Daphne Shadows