I can't help it but feel that I am getting worse day by day. As the coldness approaches and December will be there soon.
How long has it? How long has it been since I heard your voice, your laugh ... Oh god how long has it been since I held you close.
Now you're resting under the dirt and I have to deal with the emptiness. When you were leaving you should have taken me with you.
I know I have people that love me now and I feel ungrateful for feeling this way. But I can't help it but get sad.
You're visiting my dreams again... Why?
Was there something you still needed to tell me after all that time? Or Are you trying to pull me to madness to join you in eternal sleep?
Last year it was close and by every day as the date of your death comes close and the weather starts getting cold, I don't feel confident about this time either.
Late at night I think about the thing that could drive you to the end, I think about it often if I came a little bit earlier maybe you would be here. Why didn't you tell me? Staying silent... Look what it led to...
I know you're watching from above, watching me try to live a life. Watching as I fall and get up , waiting patiently for the moment I won't get up and join you there.
You lead me through the dark like an angel guardian, leading me to the light but when I follow you I fallen in a hole. Then you leave me to fight my way out and when I come out, life goes but as soon as it reaches close to December you come back and I follow you like a blind person back to the hole.
I think about your blue eyes and that wide smile, you had it till the end. But why leave me behind?
I think about the moment when I couldn't hear your voice no more, when I beg to hear your breath softly against my ear. I begged and got nothing.
When you ended it and begged me for forgiveness while your blood spilled like red wine across your sleeve, I begged you to stay , the ambulance was on its way but you ruled out your fate before I even came.
When you took the knife against yourself, I swore to never forget. How you sound but my memories are blurry and I don't think I remember it. I remember your face since you visited me in my dreams.
When you knew what would happen after you would be gone, why didn't you take me with you.
So I could taste the freedom you tasted... And to find out was it worth it?
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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LIFE RENT NUMBER... I can't remember
"How can you love someone dirty like me" were the words my lover said last Monday. We were mid make out slash cuddling and I was kissing him and he just stopped for a second not moving. Ofc I got scared it's my first relationship and I am not letting him get uncomfortable with me and I deeply care for him. But no he said the words , he looked like he was about to cry and it took me a minute... To realize what he was talking about..
TW: SA (I have permission to speak about this)
Last year , he was assaulted in the worst way possible being taken advantage of. I remember when he came home after it he didn't speak just sobbed it took me 3 hours to make him say a word but he only calmed late at night when he fell asleep.
And bc of the thing that happened to him he thinks he is dirty, marked with the awful situation that happened to him. And it broke me to see him think I would not love him...
It brought old memories to me, I was 14 when I was wearing shorts coming out of the store and a guy twice my age grabbed my butt. After that I was too scared to wear shorts and I felt marked.
And I understand how he felt how the feeling never goes away, that mark is left on you to remind you...
And no matter what you do you will always stay dirty...
It just hurts me to see him in pain if I could I would scope the pain out and fill the hole with love.
Ofc I spent the rest of the night reassuring him. I didn't mind I just wanted him to know I really did care. No matter how long it takes I would spend my last seconds of life trying to see him smile.
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