I continuously cease to be impressed with myself.
Like the over-achieving student who seeks straight-A’s for the approval of their parents.
I seek the same.
But, instead of the love & approval of a 3rd party- which I’ve found is easier to obtain- I seek it from an impossible source. The kind of source that says, “You’re not loving yourself well enough.” As it holds tightly to the last drops of acceptance. “Work a little harder, be more relaxed, have more fun, then you can have this.”
My fingers tear at my skin in search of my heartbeat.
If I dig deeply enough will I find the soul in there?
Can I set her free from this treadmill of a prison?
Dear artist, stay small.
Dear lover, be quiet, be simple, be easy to get along with.
Dear dreamer, dream only the dreams you can control.
Dear girl, cover your body because the world will never understand it’s shape.
Dear woman, you are too much to handle & too simple to hold onto.
Sinking deeper into my bones, I suck out their warmth to feed the tiredness of my heart.
It must be simpler than this somewhere.
I wish I could bathe in honey to soak the sweetness into my pores.
To smother the perfectionist’s screams in it’s thickness.
There is nothing wrong with being complex.
No damage done in feeling deeply.
To let the artist free to the world would mean risking a flightier self. One that tip toes on water instead of feet firmly planted on the ground. Will she force whimsy upon me or require me to show up 15 minutes late to meetings?
A tarot card reader once told me that I needed to let my artist out to play more.
So I cut open my soul to give her a way out.
I carved at it’s edges with a rusty knife made of perfection and bled onto her as she freed herself from my mind.
Traces of anxiety latched onto the edge of her skirt like red clay mud after running through the tobacco fields.
But, she never minded being dirty anyway.