An Artist’s Submission

“Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.” -Claude Monet

You’re fascinating and intoxicating and I just might let you kill me.

Dig your fingers into my eyes until all I see is you and my own blood.

It’s perfectly normal to only see you and my own blood.

Denial.

It wasn’t until I met you that I acknowledged the boil in my stomach,

the parasite boroughing beneath my skin, but what is it looking for?

It must be you; your selfish need to make yourself a home. After all—

You’re fascinating and intoxicating, but I won’t let you kill me.

Please don’t leave. I don’t care if you’ll kill me. I’ll give you that boy.

The boy in my bones whose hands are not yet dirty. Suck on his bones.

Devour him whole.

God was once a boy, but he was devoured by Man. You can devour me

the same.

Denial, Anger, Bargaining.

I’m at the point where I don’t know if I am real or not, but I know you are.

I am the Forgotten Man of 1934 and I don’t know my own name.

My body is weak and bleeding, left hollow by you. Will I ever be filled

again?

You’re fascinating and intoxicating and I’m begging you to kill me.

I’ve asked myself if you are worth it, even if no one knows my name.

Months and years have passed and I think it is. Because of you.

To be an artist is to submit to Obsession on bleeding kneecaps.

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.

What silly words — silly words of how I have thought of you every moment,

words that turn into words that turn into creation that turn into you.

You’re fascinating and intoxicating and you’re going to kill me.

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Submission.