I am so sorry

That they've burned down your home

Left you standing upon barren ground

Cast stones through sacred things

They shouldn't have even touched.


I am so sorry

That this ugly world

Uses fear as ammunition

Never paying mind

To how you must feel

When used as the target.


I am so sorry

That people have 'opinions'

About these tragedies

Even turning well-deserved eulogies

Into slippery slopes.


I am so sorry

There were people screaming

Just when you were trying

To rest.


And I am so hopeful

That you will reach such magnificent heights

That they will never understand.

With you I am both larger than life,
and steady enough to walk alone.

With this brush in my hand

I paint new visions

New possibilities

New forms of escape.

It can not be denied

That I am an artist.


It's a tool

Not a weapon

A medium in which I have control

Complete autonomy

If only for the day.


It's not an advertisement.

No part of me is for sale

Now or ever.


I'm not being dishonest

By choosing how I present myself

Nor is it about you.

This reflection is artwork

Any interpretation is all your own.


It's all a product of my own liberty

And it runs much deeper

Than you might want to admit.


Within these simple brushstrokes, I run free

An untamed beast

With brightly-painted claws.



I am not caged

By the stripes that I create.

He is carved from marble

And I

The selfish sculptor

Want to dig into him

Like clay.


Everyone around me

Who sees my face

Hears my voice

Brushes my skin

Promptly speaks of ice

And yet, I swear

If he would just cast a ray in my direction

I'd be warmed all the way through.


I talk like obsidian

When really

Every bone

Every feeling that I have

Threatens to send me crumbling

Like porcelain.

The sickness in me

Leaves me aching for him to break me

And yet

He already has.


I want to pick his diamond brain

Pull it all apart

Plant a piece of myself

Where he won't notice it.


I want to cover him like paint

Piece all his parts together like a puzzle

Make him remix me like a song

Rearranging every inauthentic part

Until I'm just another one of his masterpieces.


...And I could write a million odes to him

In the ink of this cowardly weapon

And it would never change the fact

That his destiny's spoken for already.