The tips of my fingers smell like cigarettes.
I make art for a fucking living.
And let me tell you, starving artist is no exaggeration.
My mascara is smudged.
There are scars that I inflicted on my hips and wrists.
I ache for physical touch, the city and the waves of the salty ocean, but not for a future.
My mind goes from blinding light, racing thoughts and pure energy to a murky darkness and a unquenchable misery.
I’m not a romantic or a realist.
I’m just trying to survive.
My past isn’t a tragic story but it ain’t no fucking fairytale.
I get lost easily.
The American dream isn’t mine, no picket fence and wedding ceremony in my future.
I drink cheap wine, and I love on borrowed time.
Doc says I have this disorder, and that one too.
But my mind works just fine.
Just differently than yours.
I see colors as emotions and words.
I make art for a fucking living.
And let me tell you, starving artist is no exaggeration.
My mascara is smudged.
There are scars that I inflicted on my hips and wrists.
I ache for physical touch, the city and the waves of the salty ocean, but not for a future.
My mind goes from blinding light, racing thoughts and pure energy to a murky darkness and a unquenchable misery.
I’m not a romantic or a realist.
I’m just trying to survive.
My past isn’t a tragic story but it ain’t no fucking fairytale.
I get lost easily.
The American dream isn’t mine, no picket fence and wedding ceremony in my future.
I drink cheap wine, and I love on borrowed time.
Doc says I have this disorder, and that one too.
But my mind works just fine.
Just differently than yours.
I see colors as emotions and words.
Maybe I’m different than you, but it’s my universe not yours.
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