On my way to this park I passed three bleeding heart bushes. Does someone have a fucking sense of humor or what? You know those were always my mother's favorite. What does that mean, I wonder. "When your heart breaks, you should die." Why is that? Why Can't I feel anything? I used to have something that is gone now.
I hate things I used to love. When I was a kid, I loved the berries that grew on the bushes, you know, the red ones, that when you squeeze them, this weird substance oozes out of them. I used to "paint" with them. I used to paint with asparagus and butter on my dinner plate too. Now, well now, I just paint with paintbrushes. How inspiring. Anyway, I hate those stupid berries now, I hate syrup and honey too. I can't stand the way it makes my hands feel. That's the thing, though, my hands should feel: Sticky, Messy…guilty. My hands should feel. What is an artist without feeling in their hands? In their being? Oh, and whenever I eat asparagus now I eat it paint-brush-end first. I don't know why. Maybe because that way I won't remember for too long how wonderful of a passionate artist I used to be compared to what I've become.
I walked to my car this morning thinking that maybe you put a note there like you used to. Instead, I found a parking ticket. Thanks for the salt in my wounds, CPD. Again, Someone's sense of humor is intriguing.
I can't really explain what it feels like to have your life shatter. On top of that, I certainly can't explain what it feels like to solely blame yourself. I can't explain much, apparently. But you don't care about that. You shouldn't, really. No one is out there looking for answers; They're out there trying to make their own.
I keep thinking that I see you, or that I hear the way that you walk. You have a way to your walk, you know. This arrogant step that used to drive me crazy. It still does, just in a different way. I think that I see you, hear you, walking towards me, but I'm blind. You can take that metaphorically, if you'd like, but I wouldn't give me that much credit, you see- It's almost dark in this park (I've been here for hours,) and I've forgotten my glasses on my drawing table.
The only two men I've ever loved: one of you is dead, from an addiction I couldn't help you with, and the other has created a monster of mistrust and confusion. "Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy." Now this is where I am. At the bottom of something. Desperately clawing to each letter I write, but don't send. Clinging to each painting I don't make. Starring at each shadow that isn't you. I don't know what else there is to take, whoever you are, but you have my depression, my sanity, and now you have my Muse.
I am an Artist. And I am Empty.
Bio: Ali is a mess 90 percent of the time. She puts her shoes on the table, her keys in the bathroom , and one time accidentally put her kitten in the refrigerator. She probably won't respond to you, because she most likely lost her phone.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
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