You swear that if he stood in the West that’s where the sun would rise. Then you remember that you’re also watching a sunset from the wrong side of the world. Now you wonder if a ball of fire in the sky wants to resign it’s position. You think that if you saw a new colour for the first time it would feel the same as when you saw him for the third, and the thirtieth, and the three-hundredth time. Then you remember that pink used to be your favourite, but now it’s blue. Now you realize it’s not the pigments that have changed, but you. You think about how when the sun sleeps you love red, but when it wakes you love lavender.
Inside out. Smeared on walls, canvas, journals. A bloody piece of “art”. Not red but black and blue. Inconsistent and non-blandiloquent. Falling apart how snow falls from the sky, hitting the ground like tears running away from eyes. This is what happens when you ask someone else to fix you – they get bored and you look fun and here’s the thing. Here’s the thing. The things is, these people aren’t engineers. They are gamblers and prostitutes and homeless and they will use you, not build you up. You will not be featured in a gallery, just a grave. And this is incipient. The only fixing to be had are the patches in their own lives, the plug in the hole in the dam and all the pressure is on you. You are not a corner, not a game, not a home. You are used, blue, and black.