Dress by www.chotronette.com
I washed the clothes I still had of you and hung them on the line. I know the next time I wear them - if I even do - you will no longer hold me. So I watched as memories of you dripped into the dirt. The sun and wind cared nothing for my human sentiments. They did their job as the universe commanded, and everything became as dry and fresh as the earth itself.
There is the jacket you gave me in the hospital, the night my brother broke his arm. The room was so cold and inside me was a hailstorm. I was shivering from the fear, grief, and guilt. Your warmth reassured me that I had nothing to be sorry or fearful for.
There is the shirt you lent me when I first slept over. None of my friends would believe we spent the night watching movies, and did (almost) nothing else. Because I never stopped smiling.
There is the scarf I took from your door; I made it mine and you gave it willingly. You told me it brought out the colour of my eyes.
There are two more jackets you gave me, each time on a night out I would get too cold, even when I was wrapped in all my layers.. I was so slender and pale and weak. And no matter what I still feel that I am.
I put my face against the fabric and felt its new warmth. The breeze blowing through me reminded me of where I was. I took the jackets off, then the shirt, then your scarf, and brought them to the bed. They became my pillow, soft but wrinkled. I buried my face into the scent of detergent and realized there were no more traces of you. They were all masked in soap and perfume. I made sure of it. I drowned you myself. But nostalgia washed over me. Before, these were the last things still suffocating me with your smell, your presence, and your memories.
There was both relief and sadness in your leaving. I could breathe again. But I didn’t like the taste. I realized this was what it was like to love someone for 6 years, and then have to fight to let them go. This was my greatest addiction, you, and everything you touched.
When we were together you breathed into me like the warmth of nicotine. You wrapped your hands around my throat, and your poison around my lungs. It was as addictive as the pills I took to forget about you. I know there’s a pride in admitting that you’re finally clean. But there’s an emptiness too.
I inhale slowly, and teach myself how to breathe again.
It is a new month. I load Tumblr. At the top of my dashboard there is something unrelated to art. But this is my art blog? I am bewildered as to why this has happened again. It reads “This post has been blocked because of the word ‘racist’”. I’m in a calm mood today, I see what Xkit is hiding from me. Something something cannot be racist against white people. A continued argument from an art blog from last night.
It is a new month.
It is 2014.
When will this end.
It’s always interesting to see when artists depart from typical art materials such as paint and opt for other interesting mediums like food. Purnell is one of these artists that repetitively recreates trees, flags, chickens, flowers, turtles and hummingbirds entirely out of food Art . The precision and color of Purnell’s work is incredibly striking to look at.