i'm not saying that i'm a saint.
i am an artist with no trade... a misguided lover humping the ground and expecting it to bloom for me. i leave you notes where you will never find them and i pose for pictures i will never see. i dip my toes into real things and then run screaming when it is too cold for my liking. i want to paint. i want to write. i wish i could dance. i describe myself as intense... and it feels fake. what do i do? brood. and wake up with phrases like "i am an artist with no trade" in my head. i feel like that mythical norm. i walked into a door two days ago... and cut my face.

i'm taking today for me.


no, i will never be a saint.