"artists only get paid to cut off their ears,
jump out windows,
commit seppuku with old butcher knives,
overdose and leave a note about how bad life felt,
step in front of trains,
or hang themselves from trees after parisian dealers reject them."
i wanted so badly to disagree,
but found myself unable to.
"i don't want that to be me," you said,
letting your artist hands go to waste.
"i'd hate myself and
just like van gogh, i'd die angry and miserable."
"it is so easy to be naked.
it is so easy.
but to be naked and unashamed,
that is something completely different."
i was beginning to learn that a heart can bend
and a heart can twist
and a heart can break apart,
for many reasons more than just that of an old lover.
i tried to tell you that
we are more than just our pasts,
but you didn't believe me.
"sometimes i cry like a baby for no reason at all."
i knew a greater lie never left your mouth,
but that's just the way you are.
there's always a reason for your tears,
and over the years you've fed me
one too many pretenses.
so i laughed,
and i laughed,
but you got angry,
"SHUT UP," i screamed right back,
forcing you to control that wild temper.
"my god," i threw my hands up,
"you artist-types are so fucking sensitive."
" you whispered so quietly
i could barely hear.
and that night your face tasted like tears,
but i didn't feel bad.
i never really do
because i know that in the end
i'm good for you.
it is in the way i touch your hair
and don't force you to talk like everyone else.
i just let you stay quiet
because many things are best kept hidden.