A tormented artist meets another tormented artist
and they have (very passionate) but tormented sex.
This leads them to have conflicting,
but still very tormented,
feelings about one another
because she cannot read the words he does not write
and he cannot see the movements she does not make.
He is left to read between the lines,
while she sees the moving picture of forever.
Sometimes I, I mean "he",
forgets you, I mean "she",
cannot see the brilliant pictures painted through the scars
tattooed on his brain.
Maybe if we were both young and alive
and not so caught up in Holocaust films
and reading about people who do drugs, respectively,
we would be able to admit that waking up next to each other some days
was not easier.
We would say that sometimes it scares us
to know that someone somewhere (no right here!)
knows the pattern of our scars
and feels free enough to trace them.
Connecting the dots.
Reminding us that the sidewalk never ended
and we never gave up our search for the man under the bed,
but we did try love once.
We also tried to cut ourselves open
to get a hole wide enough to peek inside.
We knew that our blood was red,
but we wanted to see what existed within us
beyond primary colors.
What we found was a holy sweater.
Not something blessed by some deity,
but full of holes
(so reminiscent of our tormented artist).
As the blood spilled from my body,
I put it on carefully and crawled inside myself.
I was not yet cold.