by Rie

This isn’t a new year post; this is clumsy, made of words and paste.

I’ve never wanted so much to draw. My brain is twitching and angry and thinking in pictures and words. They collide.

I’m neither good at pictures or words.

I come to this: how are you? You who have put the charcoal on my fingertips and creases in my brow. Hello and goodbye in my throat with only the goodbye on my tongue.

The walls are painted with goodbye and plastered with rent happy endings. Its contents are unremarkable – what could be as striking, could leave as lasting an impression as an artist taking form? Everything else is dust because nothing lasts but what returns to the ground. But even motes catch the light, even if they cast no shadow.

I write this because I’ve buried you even if your stains are everywhere. I write this because there’s a ferocity burning in my skull and a crooked smile on my face.

So, now, I work.

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