you think i chose this? this aching, burning thing in my chest that makes everything too loud or too quiet, too much or not enough? i didn’t choose it. it chose me. and don’t you dare say it’s just a phase. don’t you dare say it’s a luxury.
you think if i had all the money in the world i’d become an artist?
no. i already am one.
even when i was broke. even when no one was looking.
when my heart felt like a leaking faucet and i could barely hold it in my chest–art was the only thing that didn’t leave.
you hum before you talk. you dance before you walk. we’re born artists.
then the world teaches us to fear rent. fear failure. fear being too much.
but i’d rather die too much than live nothing at all.
they want me to be quiet.
to pick something ‘practical.’
to erase the parts of me that make them uncomfortable.
but my art is not a coat that i take on and off. it’s skin. it’s breath. it’s me.
and on the days you feel like dying,
you don’t turn to engineers.
you turn to a poem. a song. a movie. a book.
you turn to someone like me.
so no. i won’t apologize.
not for wanting beauty. not for feeling everything.
not for choosing a life that lives me back.