We drew ourselves with a shaky hand,
and the pencil shavings tremble next to the charred paper
because there is an honesty in the perfect uselessness of art.
I am no master. My sketches are drawn with charcoal
clutched between trembling fingers, and I paint
the same way I love; with a desperate, reverent fortitude.
There are days where I sear the profile of your face
into the backs of my irises so I can remember
what it looks like when you are happy to be with me.
Your muse entered my system like an allergic reaction,
and my poetry is anaphylactic shock. I want to carve
your inability to trust and tolerate out of your soul
the same way my knife grazes the sides of the woodwork
that I swear, someday, will be able to convey
how much I care about you. Baby, I can't promise
I'll stay interesting forever. My looks will peel away someday
the same way that the flames curl the edges of my old portraits
when they curiously lick them, but I burned out long ago.
Your skeletons are packed like bags in my closet by my artwork.
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