When I think of you I become a conflicted contraction.
If I could find all the right words to describe how I felt.
You’d be a painting done by Edvard Munch, brushed with every single anxious stroke.
You’re my illness like his sufferings were his art and their destruction would destroy his art just the way you would me.
You're like a Beethoven piece going from energetic and driven to depressed and suicidal just as my sudden change of moods.
I had struggled through your absence and went without eating or sleeping like O'Keeffe.
Like Goya’s illnesses influenced his art. My illnesses influenced my heart.
You - a place where I’d run to in a state of mind