so I tried to write a novel

I picked at my imagination so hard that it’s a bloody, mangled mess. I do this. I pick at things. I poke bruises and peel scabs. I rub things between my fingers until they fray. There isn’t a fucking thing in this world I can’t destroy with my compulsive need to be perfect. Is that what it’s even about? I think it’s just madness masquerading as perfectionism. Because I was a kid that found a dying butterfly and made it into a lump of colored dust and little bug parts, a Darla shaking the shit out of Nemo to understand it. My paintings are proof — layers and layers of caked up paint as I demand the meaning of life to show in every stroke.

I’m in a dead end relationship with myself…a little girl who only wanted to be important when she grew up, and the animal who tried to make it happen with claws and teeth, and called itself an artist.

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