washed-out-writer

[washed-out-writer]

17 January, 2025 when i sketch, i sketch lightly. every mentor ive had told me to tread lightly, avoid pressure, as if i held my pencil to the page too hard, i would leave a line too dark and too deep to erase. But i think i let you get a little too close, for the image of your smile is permanently etched into my memory, and the sound of your laugh is engraved in my soul. for someone to even begin to understand what kind of love i portray in my art, they’d have to slice my crown open with a scalpel and dissect my brain to find the little pieces of you.

[washed-out-writer]

15 January, 2025 I feel like wasted potential. I am like the champions, chosen by deities, who give their lives to the battlefield. Only champions know sacrifice, whereas I only know how to wave my white flag.

[washed-out-writer]

29 December, 2024

There's a scar on my left hand and scars on my thighs from hopeful wishing that you would be able to even show me a fraction of affection that i used to feel for you. I've been clinging onto that ledge for so long, only when i learned that the ocean was not to be feared did i let go and plunge myself into her depths.

[washed-out-writer]

17 December, 2024 and if i do trade my pennies for a rope, i will sign your name on the receipt i do not fear the depths of the ocean, waters i once swam so deep i barely surfaced i do not feel the sting of salt peppering my lungs or the liquid flooding my throat for what could be worse, what could not be gentler than the cards i was dealt but ive found myself in the dealers chair, something i avoided at all costs maybe for once it is not so bad, ive always wanted to be loved without baring my insides and if i do trade my breaths for a rope, will i have none left to give? an empty vacuum, stillness in my lungs ask yourself: who will you think of in your last moments, as your life flashes before your eyes

[washed-out-writer]

5 November, 2024 But i hear the mass Wailing and praying Too dangerous to pass and Their coils aren’t fraying With their Iron fingers holding my hands As i rot in this cage A product of their demands A family portrait, i’m faded in the polaroid Peeling away from the frame As ink begs me to stay As the light washes me away for a world beyond the picket fence But i wont stay to dance And i barely hear the mass Wailing and preying Too dangerous to pass but Their threads are fraying Rusted fingers grasping at ends As i fade from their frame and escape their picket fence

[washed-out-writer]

4 November, 2024 What sculpture can I make with hands that are not mine? Shaping the wild torrential clay, to fit the contours a melancholy figure, isolated, a floating corpse among a sea of vultures

a siren singing a song of solace but dares not speak its name muted, beaten, and cold the art that I make is not the song I'm told Waves washing in washing out A siren’s wail broken on the wheel What did you find? Did they chirp in your ear? Was her name carved next to mine? Its unfinished, a broken sculpture On my life i swear Its not mine erasing the lines of me quiet rebellion simmering like the effervescence beneath my waves beneath the animate slab layered ceramic dermis the siren with cracks along her lines a combustion in the kiln a refusal to be remade as the toss and turn of depths calls as brass swallows my voice Waves washing in washing out A siren’s broken wail in my ear: What happened to your good sense? Did they whisper influences to your mind? Did they force your name next to hers? Its finished, a broken sculpture If you swear on your life Listen closely: Do you think you know better than me? Go ahead, ruin your life Go ahead and find yourself in hell Go ahead, we warned you Walk on the barbed wire And spend your days in necrose Maybe then it will clear, the looking glass And you’ll not be brazen with the ocean fog’s stupor

[washed-out-writer]

14 August, 2024 the outcome of my life dangles from a thin fishing line they hold the rod, reeling me in, the spine of the hook pierced through my right hand ripping through flesh, the spindly wires weave through my veins, a poison taking root in the underground of my fingers and bones body precariously dangled reel reel reel hands holding me up like a trophy, the biggest fish they ever caught, the biggest they'll ever catch like the others i am tossed, crackling snapping whipping, over an open flame i thrash offered up on a silver platter, and vultures of those around me, devour me for dessert