An Artist's Roommate

8/14/16

He lives in the corner of my room.

I tell you this because

it’s more comforting than any alternative:

Like;

She dies in the middle of my room.

But I can honestly say,

neither of those things are really true.

Neither he nor she lives nor dies.

It is ising.

It is rotting with each racking breath

Wheezing like a train

Long tangles of hair drip in front of its

face that is overcome with gangrene.

Moths take up residence in its ribcage

rather than a heart

And it sings all night

“I am not beauty, I am art.”

This thing eats all of the things I leave behind

Dropped words. Dropped sentences.

It pushes all of my left socks into its mouth.

My calculus homework is

sliding down its esophagus

As it consumes

I watch it grow.

Stomach bloated

Slumped over there

In the corner or the center of my room (depending on the time of day).

Ripping page after page

from my biology textbook

Papercuts in the mouth

Papercuts on the tongue

Bleeding and eating, tearing things apart.

I hear it between mouthfuls sobbing,

“I am not beauty, I am art.”

I’ve considered calling a specialist,

some doctor or an exorcist,

But whenever I bring someone over it hides

And leaves a messy room behind.

My mother thinks I’m going mad

And lovers never stay in perspectively haunted apartments.

The best of friends will humor the situation for a time

But they too grow weary of the invisible creature.

All the time they ask me,

“When did this all start?”

And as peculiar as it sounds I can’t seem to remember a life before

the thing crying, “I am not beauty, I am art.”

Such a roommate is rather impossible to live with

With it consuming everything and

Making messes

and

Being awake all hours of the night.

It ruins any hope of house parties and

throws temper tantrums when I leave.

And while getting rid of such a beast

Shouldn’t be too hard, if you’re smart,

It’s hard to think straight with the thing always screaming,

“I am not beauty, I am art.”

So I resorted to home remedies

Try to get rid of the menace

Like burning candles out of season

And playing the ukelele all night long

I was told coconut oil is nature’s cure to everything

So I rub it all over the walls.

But mostly I just try to ignore it

And hope that it’ll get the hint and depart

But the thing just wails louder and louder

“I am not beauty, I am art.”

And at night while I lay

Curled under my makeshift shield of a comforter

It will beckon to me

Call and cry and weep long long moans

Until I get up to feed and coddle this thing,

This ugly, unwanted child of mine.

And all night it will cry and try

to further break my heart

Though I hate this little demon

I can’t imagine a life apart,

As I hold it in my arms it cries,

“Love me, for I am your art.”