I Don't Want To Be An Artist, I Just Don't Want To Be Alone

i don’t want to be an artist i just don’t want to be alone

i’m reborn in the eyes of every person i meet. that i could exist to someone as a person, just a person, and not the person i myself have become so exhausted by, is the greatest saving grace i could ever have.

table of contents pg 4, “0 job experience” pg 7, “playing chicken on the subway” pg 8, “closet” pg 11, “imaginary sweater” pg 12, “happiness” pg. 14-15, “when it goes dark, where do we go?”

0 job experience when someone tries to take something away from you you do whatever you can to protect it this becomes your work personhood is strenuous preservation is tenuous feeble, crumbling to sun too strong and rain too torrential generous and naive, personhood is a tragedy of the commons this becomes your work tilling your soils, weeding out poison, hoping for a forgiving season sharecroppers collect your gains, banks seize your land everyone clamors you into destitution this becomes your work neglected by the strong when you are weak; and a sympathetic clown when you are convenient. you swallow; you spit blood. this becomes your work when the blood dries into the ground and the soil turns into concrete when you cleaned the dirt under your nails siloed, so became this work

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playing chicken on the subway Kaleidoscope of eyes, trembling thighs cautious not to touch, rubbing shoulders cautious not enough I look at my shoes, my neck sore I read an ad for the 4th time My eyes dart, from beanie to eyelash to fingernail to lips to jaw to knees Why is it when we’re together, repulsion comes with so much ease?

closet When I was in high school my mom cornered me into the closet Stuffed with shoeboxes, hooved wooden chairs stacked on a dresser, the smell of old leather emanating from a cascade of coats The carpet was brown shag, the light was dim yellow I was born unwanted, she said My father wanted an abortion, she said But she decided to keep me, she said Hot, lump in my throat, I went to get water I put my fingers and thumb around the base of the cool glass Standing, I put my forearm on the counter, wet with tap water I press my eyes into my forearm because I can’t close them My limbs go numb and tingle I don’t move until it stops Now I am 20 and in New York and I drink water sitting down and ponder all the new places I want to run away to And when I think about never seeing my mom ever again I want to cry myself into a million pieces

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imaginary sweater

My imaginary sweater is studded with sun glints off the ocean, so when you look at me my body is a dazzling, shaking mirage It’s patterned with an argyle shade of golden light filtering through trees And a geometric bricolage of skyscrapers, densely stacked towards the horizon like a penrose cake of brick and concrete It’s the sweater you wear when the sun sets at the beach And it’s woven with that feeling, of sea salt and sand

happiness Happiness to me seemed like willful blindness A years long accumulation of oversight Atrophying the brain into a sweet lull It seemed impossible to me that anyone could be substantially happy Without willing themselves to believe that the gnawing pit inside of them Just wasn’t there Maybe I was just bad at being happy, my strength of will too weak So you copy happy people Surround yourself with other people’s happiness And if you cannot trick yourself into being happy, by co-opting their joy, at least you have the cliff notes But I’m sorry, no This can’t be the way You can’t attain happiness through studying And happy people cannot be so darkly duplicitous as to shroud mountains of misery from view with the adept and seamless sleight of hand of a conman That I cannot even conceive the conditions of happiness scares me the most

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when it goes dark, You know when you go to turn off the lights, and you watch your fingers flip the switch, and with a click, it all goes dark, so very dark?

And for a second it is so dark you can’t see anything, not even the floor you’re standing on, not even the arm outstretched in front of you, not even the moonlight reflecting off your fingernails.

When it’s so dark you could be anywhere, anytime, anything.

When it’s so dark, you don’t feel your body.

When it’s so dark, you could be floating.

For that moment our bodies are not our own, where do they go?

Do they go to space and come back covered in stardust?

Do they go to the future and come back with stomach aches because our primitive 21st century organs are not suited for food in the future?

Do they ever go to a secret place the brain has long forgotten?

Do they go to the ocean, do they hide in sandy coves, do they jump in rain puddles, rub their feet across blades of grass?

where do we go?

Do they ever go to where you are?

Have you seen me when you close your eyes?

I think of your fingers brushing against my hip bone as we hug goodbye.

I think of the shadows falling from your face.

When I smell a familiar smell, taste a familiar food, hear a dulcet tone, I get sent tumbling into memories that lead me back to you.

When my body is sore and my muscles ache all the parts you once touched with your sweet calloused hands call out to me like a phantom limb of an amputee.

For that moment our bodies are not our own, what secrets do they keep from us?

I blink.

My pupils widen, and my eyes adjust to the darkness.

I feel the floor, solid and flat, under my feet.

And my body keeps its secrets.

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