I'm an Artist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
I'm an artist, nothing more, nothing less.

Submitted: June 16, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 25, 2017



I’m an artist. An artist with so many brushes I lost count. With so much paint I can’t name them all. With so many canvases that I cannot keep them in my closet anymore.

I have many trusted instruments I use to paint the gorgeous sunset to which I lost my first kiss. That dark bedroom in which my innocence faded into nothingness. Those rough hands that touched my body all over and the shinning stars that watched it happen.

I hang those paintings on the walls of my cramped apartment. The paintings are reminders of what happened and why. They remind me of him. The reason I became an artist. A reminder of what I have lost and will never get back.

I fill the empty spaces on my walls, like I’m trying to fill the black whole in my chest. It’s almost like an obsession of mine. Maybe when the walls will be decorated I’ll feel more alive. Maybe the dull ache in my heart will vanish.

I know that’s not true.

I need something that makes me feel human. Something that takes away the steel walls around my heart and brings life into my eyes. Something that stops the tears from spilling out. Something to cleanse my wounds of infection and hide away the scars.

The things that we all take for granted: smiling, laughter, happiness. Those things walked out my front door with him. It’s been weeks, perhaps years, I’ve been too drunk and stoned to remember. So long since he turned his back to me, yet the stench of sex hangs in the air. It makes me dizzy and brings my insomnia to light.

Since the time he left me wet and broken on the floor casual encounters have become just that – casual. I go out in the evening find a guy or girl, bring them home, in the morning we part and that’s that. With no strings attached, no names, failures or burdens, just drowning in pleasure and forgetting how broken I am.

My lasts night “friend” has already walked through the door with her things. There was an understanding in her eyes, no pity or sympathy, but a cold hard understanding. Somehow that irritated me more, but we were both there for the same reason: to forget. We needed to forget the empty bottles of whisky, the money wasted on drugs, the haunting laughter and the burning shame. All of that was forgotten in a night full of passion.

With a man, it’s easy to remember, to effortlessly fall into the dark place in my mind which I pretend doesn’t exist. With a woman, the words that ring in my ears grow louder and cut much deeper. His ghost lingers in my consciousness like poison. It’s killing me, agonizingly slowly it’s doing its job and dragging me into the deepest pits of madness.

As cliché as it sounds, painting grounds me and reminds me of reality.

An old friend, whom I’ve not talked to for years, and me had a conversation once. I remember it clearly, something so little and yet important to remember and something I think about when looking at my work.

Are you in love?” she laughed at my puzzled expression and continued, “You paint lovers often, you paint them kissing, hugging, celebrating Valentine’s and so on.” My hand came up to cover up the blush that spread over my cheeks. “Remember, dear, paintings tell much about the person who created them, they betray their secrets, expose their deepest desires and display their greatest weaknesses. So, who is it? Tell me, tell me!”

I look at my paintings now and know she was speaking the truth. All of them are chaotic, stormy seas threatening to swallow a massive ship, a deadly tornado decimating a peaceful village and a fire engulfing a forest in flames. That is what I feel like.

My heart will tear apart at the seams at any moment. My almost non-existent sanity will vanish. My greediness will destroy me and my broken heart will devour me whole.

There’s a dull pain behind my eyes, reminding me of the alcohol I drank in an attempt to forget my vulnerability, needle pricks on my arms reminding me how low I’ve fallen and a love bite on my neck reminding me of how love can tear you apart, how it can strip your defences and get under your skin like a disease, yet it feels nice and warm until that love turns into other things: hate, obsession, lust, mistrust and fear.

I’m an artist. An artist with so many hooks ups I lost count. With so many faults I can’t name them all. With so many different skeletons whom I cannot keep in the closet anymore. 

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