I don’t fit in. No one can see. I struggle to show you all that makes me, me. Because of that, I feel insignificant once more.
When I was a little girl, I dreamt of swallowing paint so what I felt inside would match what was in my minds eye. I wanted to color my heart lilac and the birdcage of my ribs saffron and the length of my spine all the blues of the sea. Sadly, I am not Salvador Dali. I am just me.
That no longer feels enough.
If I was da Vinci I could cleave my heart to show you where you fit inside. Maybe you would prefer I be like van Gogh so I can offer you my own ear like a bouquet to match the darkness you feel. Would that be a gift of light in your obsidian sky? Then when you find delight, your laughter would sound like a crystal chandelier. I would paint that beautiful sound.
I am feeling a blue period so maybe I could be Picasso. I would square away my tongue into cubes to silence myself, drape my lungs on a rusty clothes line and toss a billowing white sheet over my heart. Then slip my nose two inches to the right and flatten all three of my dimensions so I can finally meet your expectations. Form into what you need. To be seen and not heard.
Sorry to disappoint, instead I am just me. I only carry the river of capillaries in my chest that now leaks and the burn of regret in my stomach. I sit down to write and make allusions to artists greater than myself, more enduring. They are each preserved in a mausoleum of history whereas I am just flesh and bone, blood and sweat, and too many tears. Instead of paint swirling inside of me, there is only a surge of sadness coating my veins.
I will never be Dali. I cannot cut myself open and spill an immortal masterpiece into your soul.
Even giving all of me, is never enough.
Instead, I bleed.
The colors of me.
Artwork was done by me.