you’ve been asked to walk alone
charras in the window
come with me
banyan draped so heavenly
want to die
went so fast around the curves
feet in window
butt on seat
fingers barely find the keys
I’ll find my feet
Many times I’ve sat to write. The journal is better these days —
pen flows without promise
of a reader
It’s amazing what it’s like to not want to be seen.
I remember what it was like ‘wanting’ to be seen. The loudest, the proudest, the best at this and that… It felt good to be seen.
And then, it did not feel good to be seen.
Right now, it does not feel good to be seen, perhaps because it feels people have expectations from me. To be wise. To be helpful. Or at least, to be cheerful.
I don’t want to be cheerful.
I want to paint smears of ochre yellow, purple, black, white across large canvasses. I want to paint foreheads, and cheeks, and chins. I want to paint people not smiling.
I want to paint the people, not smiling.
I am not smiling. If I am, I am likely not sober. It’s shitty. But it’s true, these days.
I’m often not smiling.
I am crying.
I am painting reflections on canvas.
They are often missing eyes, and nearly always missing
I am nearly always missing
of what was
when I used to be what was it that I used to be?
Nevermind because right now, I don’t want to smile
because that would not be fair. There are so many people
I am one of them now.
And now, I have no words to offer you.
But I can paint you some ochre lips.
Would you like that?