Darling we have been killing brain cells for way too long, blowing clouds of feelings unfiltered and so raw yet we still find ourselves blinded by the concept of better days and a reality in which we are less likely to end up burning out like cigarettes or worse we face the inevitable completely sober. Run out of gas in the tank and maybe you’ll stop running from who you are they said, I’ll walk barefoot down the path you paved with broken wine glasses and shattered mistakes drenched in the sweat that drips drown my back as I try to battle the beam of the sun in my eyes and fight for another day. Do I really even want to be alive?
You stand by the soda machine at Burger King as I tiptoe around my SAT scores and college applications proceed to crush me. I think I may need a refill. I fold into myself like origami and you stitch our fuck ups into your skin, make the canvas unholy with all this sin. I am supposed to be writing an exhilarating piece diving into the Creative Crisis an artist such as myself so often faces but I think about tomorrow and I can’t help but admit, it scares me. My father makes promises I fear he knows he can never complete and my life hangs in the balance of family and being able to breathe. But they’ve done so much for me, so if I die it has to be of asphyxiation, right?-H