It’s an incomplete desire for something I’ve never had. “A part of my heart lives in the work I’ve made,” they say. I look down at the fraction of my soul I have strangled in my hands.
There is something so gentle yet grueling yet possessive yet messy yet rewarding about poetry. The need, the want, the love, all of the strength and devotion borne from held-back desperation.
Anxiety feels like anticipation, feels like hunger, feels like something resting against my ribs, taking a breath before it sinks its teeth—turns to fear.
It’s something so strange to me, hearing people say, “I dance the line between good and evil”, because I know that they do not. When they say that, they do not mean that they are on the line between good and evil, but that they want to do whatever they’d like with no consequences, no attachment. No, the ones who truly understand are the ones who know that there is no line.
cooked up by vision+voice
