I once told him that I was living for my art
But now my words have dried, caked, and clotted
A tumour of thoughts, cancer of the muse,
A blockage in my creativity, Blank Page Syndrome,
An aneurysm of storytelling.
The part of me that would create seems to have died,
And though I long for my works they will not come to me.
I yearn for canvases, sheets of lined paper,
A swath of velvet stretched across an easel,
Ready to be struck and splashed with red paint
Of blood, or fire, the colour of passion and fury
True love, and hatred, all the hottest emotions
Pouring pure, straight from the heart.
Red on black and black on red.
The only colours I see now.
Coming from a long line of people with addictions
I wonder what mine will be
And swear off all substances, on the chance that one
Will get its claws in me
I let words be my addiction instead, giving myself over to them
Letting words get inside my head, into my bloodstream
Letting words corrupt me, like computer coding
Letting them rewrite me on a cellular level.
He is an addictive person too.
We were never good for each other, I tell myself now.
But we were. We laughed, and loved, and were as couples should be.
We were happy together, if a bit awkward, a bit strange.
But we were pulled apart, and I ended it. But his addiction won’t let go.
“I think I’m addicted to you.” He tells me. “Not to you, exactly, but to
The idea of a person.”
Is that what I am? The idea of a person?
So be it. Let me be an idea. “Ideas are bulletproof,” so said
One of my idols, his words drunk with blood and muted
Behind the mask he always wore.
I long to be such an idea. Let me ring on, to ages immortal,
Time outside of time.
Let me be a legend.
