rituals

An artist is always in pain.

Mattress, dull butter knife blade.

God, 

the things that happened to me

shouldn’t happen to anyone—

The inconvenience 

of adoration—

Do I want to lay forever?

Sleep forever,

watch time condense into a single point,

stutter like I used to, 

do my best to scrub myself clean

                          in every place my old self touched

my newly reborn body. 

                           I want to fold my skin

like a paper napkin. Crumple myself

around a single point, a spill of color. Bleed.

I am an artist; therefore I am in pain.

I am in pain; therefore I am an artist.