YOU CALL YOURSELF AN ARTIST

here you are again

attending private tours of your own mind

standing too close to the paintings in the gallery

and leaving fingerprints on the smudged glass

you call yourself an artist

because you speak only in metaphors

these are, at best, half-truths

and otherwise outright lies

but go on

tell yourself a new story

you’re so distracted and disillusioned

that you feel the urge to paint yourself

as a new god

you tell me you thread silver floss through the night sky

embroidering glittering constellations into the fabric of the universe

but all you've done is score scars into an already damaged canvas

you claim to paint with liquid sunlight and molten gold

and yet the scent of metallic red hangs heavy in the air

you call yourself an artist

but you forget that artists love their craft

your cheeks burn when you create your art

they burn when you talk about it

talking about carving craters into old moons

carving lovesick poetry into young trees

lathering your hands in their blood

and in your own

you call yourself an artist

but you forget that art is intentional

I know you do not trust your own hands

because I’ve seen the way they tremble 

you stand staring at your canvas again

and again, painting yourself another tragedy 

so here you are

closing the gallery and covering the paintings

with dusty grey sheets

so you don’t have to look at them

when you pass by

you call yourself an artist

but you're not

you are just a person doing damage

too afraid to be honest

and burying your shame in a metaphor

but go on

tell yourself a new story

call yourself a ghost or a god

or whatever comes next

and when tears prick your eyes

the next time you sit in front of your “canvas”

we’ll see if such a story calms the shaking of your hands

as you douse your skin in blue acid

to cover up the damage you’ve done

I’d ask you to stop

but we’ve tried that before

you’re too busy turning your pain into poems

telling yourself romantic stories so it doesn’t hurt so much

it won’t change anything

it will still be you who’s bleeding

even when you bury yourself in a metaphor