carefully laid out words. structured in a way I haven’t bothered with in years.
my hands tremble sometimes when I write. they tremble anyways maybe.
i watch clean people post art that rages with inexperience and naturally resign.
Im no better than anyone, but maybe i can say this is real.
no titles or flourish. no ambiguous drops and carefully crafted allegory.
maybe I’m too rough around the edges nowadays, too quick to judge art based on how much i feel.
truth is I don’t feel anything if i can’t smell your blood on the pages, in the paint, in the words.
maybe I’m sick.
i want to consume what you have to offer, but only if you offer me everything.
gut yourself right now. over that desk. under that table.
let me feel how fucking messy you are.
tell me everything you’ve fucked up and let me pick the skin from your bones while you do it.
