i’m starting to think i was brighter when my wounds were fresh,
that my words were sharper when i wrote them in blood.
i could prick my skin with a safety pin and paint with what comes out,
inspired by the substances running through my body.
the melting bodies sketched during therapy sessions
flowed out of a marker
and underwent mitosis
to spawn clones of itself onto a statue,
a shelf,
a wall.
if ache is a muse,
what is an artist to do
when his muse has left?