1. Do you miss me?
2. Why do I get so lonely when doing exactly what I want?
3. Why is it instinct to cut off all my hair when I am sad? Beauty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In art school, in lit classes, in philosophy, in everything worth thinking about beauty is safe and boring. Except art history. We don’t speak of the beauty there. There’s the image of god and the newly fallen church and the old habits and the culture and the language and the education and the fear and the plague. Oh god the fucking plague and the shit and piss poured out of windows. Look at this and look at that but never look at the fucking beauty. Beauty means shit to history. I mean shit to history not because I am beautiful but because I am not. Everything worth thinking about tells you beauty is safe and boring and once in class to my peer I told them their image was beautiful and that was fine but don’t put it on my fucking wall. You put that shit on your fridge with your crayon drawings and your graduation invitations where your mother can proudly say her child made this thing that doesn’t need understanding. They cried and the irony of it was I thought how beautiful his face all crumpled up and dejected. So much honesty. Is the honesty beauty or is it that I don’t know what the word beauty from fake or an adequate word for when people show real emotions and the refreshing, well fuck it, honesty in that.
Three years later they’re still making the same photograph with the same professor and I’m still an asshole who was nothing in history, not even that one person’s personal history. Nothing.
4. You learned to love too late. You learned to love when you ran millions of miles away, theoretically and symbolically and literally. You’re far away and who loves you there now. You say you love me but that I must understand that carefully. You say you want to fuck me because I drive you wild with my mind but that I must understand this carefully and exactly. You say, well now I feel bare. I say nothing but that I understand. I understand you’re an asshole who thinks this is love. This is not love. Love does not find subtle ways to string others along. You said you learned to love but nobody has time for your love anymore. I don’t have time for your love anymore. You will be a bump, a mountain of dirt and detritus in my history.
5. Despite what they say, the truth will not set you free. I do not feel free with these words on this screen. You have hurt me. You hurt me. You have hurt me and you hurt me.
