people tell me that my art is a gift.
it's not a gift,
it's not anything at all
((unless i want it to be,))
unless i abuse it ruthlessly and,
in the end, my fingertips are bleeding and i'm covered in dirt and vomit and
i'm on my knees, darling, looking up at god.
((then it might just be worth something
more than it actually is,))
i might be –
september 7th, 2011
i'm sorry. more ranting. i can't help myself.