Slow Burn

Is my art conditioned

to consistent,

self-inflicted heartbreak?

Why does it feel

so masochistic—

if misery loves company,

it’s me, myself, and I.

Apathetic aesthetic,

gloom forever looming.

I let it take hold,

then call it creation—

like I have to ache,

have to be in pain

just to be poetic.

I purposefully choose

a losing battle I could never win.

It isn’t him I’ve learned.

You wouldn’t blame a fire

for putting your hand in it

and getting burned.

You’d have to hold yourself accountable—

and I do.

Although never aloud.

Instead, I write it down.