I’ve been sorting through my old writing, having run the inkwell on my muses dry for the week.

Well, I just haven’t seen any of them. I’ve been stuck in this apartment shaking off fever dreams,
Coughing up the consequence of my weak American heart.

I have nowhere to run to anymore. New York was always my refuge, my excuse, my explanation for why something wasn’t enough. Or someone.

Well, I guess there is always India. Mexico. Bruges.

New York was something different. just feasible enough that at any moment I could escape. I did escape. Often. Until I finally moved here.

This is what happens when I get locked in my bedroom for three days. Alone. Until now it’s been enough. This city, I mean.

He asks,
But what about his skin?

I am in a fight with my dead mother. For the first time in almost 5 years she has been making regular appearances in my dreams. I resent her for being the inspiration behind my best writing. She will never know! She will never know. The frustration of that matter is overwhelming. I understand that as a human I am worth more than the part of me that is missing. Her absence has made her more of a presence.

I am the only art project she ever finished, and she will never know.

I should channel this artistic frustration into something worthwhile.
Or onto someone worthwhile.