starry ni

Stop calling yourself “meme king” or “pastel goth queen”. Stop romanticizing the monarchy. The revolutionaries are coming, with bayonets and torches; the people’s court will decide your fate. I am Maximilien Robespierre, leader of the jacobins. You are Louis XVI, trying to escape the Tuilleries. I point my sword at you. Vive la revolution.

i visit van gogh on a day when i am tired and soft in my vulnerability 
breathe quietly and try to remember how to beat a heart in time 
my veins stutter and i press quaking fingers to my wrists 

my isolation is heavy on my shoulders.
this is something i have made for myself 
out of wastes and dark, thickly hot deserts 
there is nobody to blame for this but myself 

i have buried myself 
but with that, there is no one left to leave flowers on my grave

van gogh remains silent. 
stuck in a painting 
starry night 
starry ni-
star-

st-a r ry ni g-ht.
my hands itch for a pen. 
for a keyboard. 
i push them into my coat pockets and tilt my head 
try to look at this painting differently

i am alone in this art gallery. 

people mill around me 
but i am the only one who does not move 
feet planted solidly in front of beauty 
i can feel the tears start to rise 
my eyes turning shiny and watery 
i can feel my sadness well like blood in a shallow cut 

van gogh says nothing 
trapped in a painting 
i think,
“you were sad too”

and i am stuck in a space right then 
between real and tired and blurred 
and the beauty i can sink myself into 
pull the ethereality hanging like mist around that artwork 
over my shoulders like a shroud
cover myself with it 
choke myself with it 

i cannot remember what it is to breathe 
tears spill over 
track down my cheeks 
the other gallery-goers do not notice 
van gogh gazes without opinion from his canvas 
i am vulnerable 

soft
sad 
a million brushstrokes 
an artist’s remorse
and a poet’s death.

—  art blues (i never liked monet as much as you) // H.S. 

Life update