artists are the most dangerous people to be around.
they convince you that you’re beautiful, that every flaw is simply an artistic choice. your abuse equates to using red instead of blue, your eating disorder is oil instead of watercolors. you become a sculpture, a painting, a set of photos; they find a way to dehumanize you while putting you on the highest pedestal they can, and damn, does it feel good.
you can walk around with them and feel like a monet, a van gogh, a dali, an abstract collection of traits that somehow melt into one amazing picture. you do not see the individual pieces, but the product. and sometimes those are two very different things.
eventually, you leave them, and your skin is no longer fine marble, but just skin. and after feeling like a prized possession, a priceless beauty, the shock comes and you realize you are not. you are a person. your flaws are flaws, your skin is skin, your hair is hair. you are not art, you are a human being. the metaphors they attached to you did not change that fact.
you are you. you are broken, and damaged, and falling apart. you are not something that can be preserved and kept forever and that is the beauty of humanity. it can’t be held.