Ashes
Only 266 days until I see you again.
Only 21 days now...
I am drunk, off cigarettes and whiskey. Chubby from waiting and hoping.
I wish i could type faster and still make sense,
What if you hadn't been there?
What if I was alone?
where would I be.
Alone still, but less?
In a studio?
I miss creating. But in a vague, sad way. Like I couldn't make then, and I can't make now.
In a desperate, hurtful way...
To spare the lives and hearts, I had to give something up. Maybe that was creating.
To make, I had to devour. and to devour I had to give up being...
being sexual, and sensual. Being empowered... and yet not. I was wound around something, in a desperate attempt to become art.
I hate that I can't be both.
I'm a wife.
Not an artist.
I'm alone, but not defiled.
It feels like it used to feel, but less desperate.
Give it up. Let it go. I understand the way it feels to leave what I used to be for what I am.
What is it called...
when you eat yourself?
When you...
sleep to much?
when you talk to much?
When you lose your voice...
When you are afraid to leave the house?
When you are swollen from drowning?
Bloated with trying to forget.
I used to be famous. I used to be an artist.
I miss using my hands. I miss my wrinkled fingers. And my bloated abdomen, fresh with the spark of inspiration...
But still I'm waiting for you. Hoping that the embrace, the kiss... making dinner every night will be worth losing a destructive and sad part of me....
Only 21 days now...
I am drunk, off cigarettes and whiskey. Chubby from waiting and hoping.
I wish i could type faster and still make sense,
What if you hadn't been there?
What if I was alone?
where would I be.
Alone still, but less?
In a studio?
I miss creating. But in a vague, sad way. Like I couldn't make then, and I can't make now.
In a desperate, hurtful way...
To spare the lives and hearts, I had to give something up. Maybe that was creating.
To make, I had to devour. and to devour I had to give up being...
being sexual, and sensual. Being empowered... and yet not. I was wound around something, in a desperate attempt to become art.
I hate that I can't be both.
I'm a wife.
Not an artist.
I'm alone, but not defiled.
It feels like it used to feel, but less desperate.
Give it up. Let it go. I understand the way it feels to leave what I used to be for what I am.
What is it called...
when you eat yourself?
When you...
sleep to much?
when you talk to much?
When you lose your voice...
When you are afraid to leave the house?
When you are swollen from drowning?
Bloated with trying to forget.
I used to be famous. I used to be an artist.
I miss using my hands. I miss my wrinkled fingers. And my bloated abdomen, fresh with the spark of inspiration...
But still I'm waiting for you. Hoping that the embrace, the kiss... making dinner every night will be worth losing a destructive and sad part of me....