Today I wrote a song about your teeth. They are crooked and imperfect. Just like this. Our hands. And these songbirds are all liars. We havenβt learned. Flesh memory is overrated. Last night I felt the linen, and it whispered to me nothing. Not even the shape of you reminds me of happiness. What is the use of these metaphors if they canβt beautify you anymore. No longer as fierce as the inferno I allowed you to become. Drowning in bedclothes, trying to understand how streams of consciousness are becoming bodies of water. Today I wrote a song about your teeth. And I read it aloud to the voiceless, and now they know what love tastes like.
Does hating your own art make you a better artist, or just stranger to your own hands?