i feel free
by myself
without any one else
any body that’s coarse and weak
i don’t need a body to complete me.
i don’t need your false sunlight,
your false sense of security.
i am better alone.
i am easier to manage.
i am easier to mold into something else
something cowardly
like trying to belong.
oh, why did i ever try to belong?
oh, why did i ever try?
who was i
to be so bold as to assume that i was anything more than just a dying art?
for you.
a dying art
for your cracked and callused hands
to hold and touch when the brush becomes a part of your hand
—you can’t seem to set it down.