Friday, December 09, 2005

I am not the beloved. I never will be. I am something disorganized and malformed but still endearing. A children's drawing, armless figures with popsicle eyes. Thick scribbles in purple crayon. But not the beloved. Nothing to be revered and feared and dwelt upon. Childhood scribbles will not hang framed in gilt beside a portrait by [insert famous artist] . Those, the beloved, they're works of masterpiece with their unchewed fingernails, clean-planned lives and arctic underwear. Me? I take the scraps. The leftovers in your fridge and the blank spot in your bed. You can't own a masterpiece. And you don't want to own the scribble. But you can have the scribble, use it to wipe your sticky hands after wacking yourself to ball gag porn. Then toss it out the window without remorse because it will surely biodegrade. Because after all, you aren't the beloved either.
posted at 2:09 PM |