I am graphite.
She talks about you, and you are her first.
Her insides were scraped clean and she wonders how you managed
To fill them again
The more she gave away.
Her hands and arms stained with black
Are the remnants of the mind,
The trace of nonexistent creation,
Are your struggle as much as her’s.
But why would you cling to her skin,
Not where you should?
You say, Dear One, look closer and tell me what you see
Who do you see where do you see how do you see
That I never left?
I am ink.
Your purpose is to turn her blood into art.
Perhaps that is why you chose to take the blame
When her insides would boil while her wings were not chipped
As the cruel mediator of time nonchalantly set back
To begin again.
She knew, and she’d wonder about you
What about you?
And yet she couldn’t ask because
She knew about you.
You are as generous as your promise is unforgiving,
That’s what everyone knows.
But how could she why would she why is she
Sometimes she isn’t right for everything.
That’s okay, you say. Neither am I.
I am digital data.
You looked her in the eyes and ordered her
No longer shall it take from her without taking from you.
She believes you like she believes in the quickest success
Without effort, and she would think without knowing:
How could you lie to her so?
Illusion of saturation to soften the blow
Pixelation for competition of wits
Dye for detail behind the vague idea
Light streak for enlightenment of an end or
When will it work how it will it work where will it work
You choose, you say. You don’t have to believe me,
But believe what you see.
I am the artist.
She is one and separate from
What graphite, ink, and data can express
Where her speech cannot.