I didn’t notice at first—
how the paper darkened
whenever my mind did.

How my hand obeyed the ghosts in my head,
spilling ink I never meant to pour,
turning every sketch into a dismembered memory
I could not bury.

I told myself,
“It’s just art.”

As I painted a black silhouette,
rope tight around the neck,
calling it “expression,”
but my mind whispered,
“This is how you feel.”

Tell me—
what kind of art strangles you
while you’re still alive?

I drew her lipstick smudged,
eyes screaming for help,
and said, “It’s just a concept,”
but it was me, wasn’t it?

Mascara running at 3 A.M.,
the mirror whispering,
“Wipe it off before they see you’re breaking.”

I painted limbs cut, bones broken,
stuffed her into a bag on the canvas,
called it “creative,”
but it was me, wasn’t it?

Chopping parts of myself
to fit into spaces I don’t belong,
breaking what won’t bend,
silencing screams in the back of my throat.

And when I toast to a goblet,
pour another bottle before bed,
I tell myself, “I’m just tired.”

But the wine is the only one listening,
nodding back in crimson reflections,
never telling me, “Don’t think like that,”
only hushing me to sleep
when I whisper, “I can’t do this anymore.”

I wish I could read between the lines,
match the types, connect the dots,
but I am the lines, the dots,
the smudges on every page I touch,
the type they skip over,
the dot they miss,
the line they don’t read.

So I draw my pain,
sing my sorrow,
dance with ghosts that cling to my ankles,
spin for them—
round and round and round,
until I’m dizzy enough to forget,
because it’s the only way I know how to breathe.

Funny thing is—
the saddest people give the best advice.
They know what to say,
they know the words you crave,
because they crave them too.

They don’t know I say those words
because I wish someone would say them to me.

So when you thank me for saving you,
remember: I was talking to myself.
Telling me to hold on, to breathe, to stay.

My art is not just art.
It’s a confession,
a silent scream hidden in brush strokes,
in shadows,
in black silhouettes.

It is a dismembered memory
on canvas, begging to be remembered,
begging to be seen.

And maybe—
just maybe—
one day,
someone will look at what I’ve drawn
and say, “I see you.”

And I will know,
I am not alone.