Vincent Van Gogh ate yellow paint because he believed it would bring him happiness  within.  Regardless of toxicities and rumors, he believed so fiercely in a cure that he poisoned himself.

My sadness is not as great as his was, nor is it memorable or unique.  Unlike Van Gogh, I do not poison myself with physical chemicals.  On days when I cannot shut my eyes for the fear of the ringing in my ears, I swallow metaphorical pills and my makeshift body deteriorates.  I am crumbling from the outside, from the inside--my body is encased in a thin film of excretion, wildly defined by powerful fumes expelled from my brain

I am a walking travesty.

My sadness is a painting.  I am Scripture, holy, a three-in-one highway to heaven - worship me.  The Bible wouldn’t ever save me because Jesus forgot about depression (or was it depressants?  Am I a sinner for those drugs, too?).  I am God, your queen; however, my reign is no Golden Age and I’ll probably die young as most reality stars do.

“Love thyself,” they preach, though their words seem to just barely skim over the tight curls of my hair and soft shade of my skin.  Love myself?  If loving myself were as simple as creating a poster with the tagline “Love thyself,” I would.  How does one love their whole self, their entire being, their galaxies & windchimes & forest fires?  I am not like you, no, I will never be like you.

Vincent Van Gogh ate yellow paint because he was completely disillusioned by the brilliance of life.  I take a look in the mirror every morning and I ask myself, “Are you disenchanted?”  My sky hair tangles tightly around my face, stars & suns & moons clinging desperately to my cheekbones.  Today, it is blue & pink & defined by the startling dustiness of dusk.  Today, I am enthralled with the imminence of light & life’s ever occurring facets.  Today, I see my reflection as it is romanticized (or sexualized): all hills & valleys with a distinct lack of plains or prairies.  I might see myself as a piece of nature or a work of art.

And yet, I cannot forgive myself for the manipulation.  I may be morning or night; I may be reduced to the simplicity of a time of day--but I will not be forgotten.  You there--you can look into the Stars & cry "FATHER, father, WHY have you forsaken me?"  But what can I do when the sky is attached to my head and everything I have ever believed in is silent . . . noiseless . . . deafening.

I may be sinking into my own self-deprecating madness.
I no longer have a path, or a belief, or a way.  I am my own useless entity, & I can no longer bear to observe the suffocating coma enveloping my comet.  This is not science, but space - ceaseless & startling & unknown.  I am a broken religion, pages of the Bible torn from their binding, ancient texts & broken verses & intoxicating beliefs.  Self-deprecation is my dogma.  I feel nothing.

"Maybe you should change."

Maybe I should change - oh! for the love of a God should I change - but I shall not.  I only become more diluted, over-translated, misunderstood & taken too literally.  Do you know me, is my question for the force above me (for the galaxies & Suns & constellations in my hair).  DO YOU KNOW ME? And yet I cannot sympathize with you (supposedly we are one in the same - all the same - paint over me with your colorblind eyes).
My skin is silk & my blood is tainted - are we still the same?  If you could hold my heart - oh, if only (if only).  My skin is purple & peach & leaking out onto every holy page it can.  We are not the same; we are not blood; we are not kin.

NO, I shall not cut off my ear to try to understand art - or GOD FORBID cut off my ear in the attempt to make you understand my art.  I AM art.  I thought I might cut open my stomach, though, just to see if maybe I bled yellow (to see if Van Gogh was on to something).  I might even tear open my chest or stretch my ribs to their furthest reaches, but you would never appreciate the butterflies that flew out.  YOU WOULD NEVER CARESS MY DIAPHRAGM - you would dangle your fangs over my rapidly beating heart, drip your poison steadily into my veins.  You may think, upon first glance, that I am the one to possess unforgiving teeth, but I am only a girl that feels the twilight so powerfully that my sky hair pulses with its energy.

I am harmless.

The butterflies that float docilely in my stomach are a direct reflection of my true self; my eyes may gleam with passion & hatred & the fire of a billion Suns, but that is where it all stays (merely lamps to make me look alive).  I am all but thriving - please believe in this mask I have put on.  YOU ALL SEE MY HAIR BUT DO YOU SEE ME.

I can't even see past my hair, with its whispering stars & tantalizing nebulas.  I can never escape its flickering illusions and angry burning.

Maybe I’m not on fire; maybe my skin is not sizzling at the heat I feel; maybe this is not reality and I REALLY AM JUST MAD. But - you see - even I could not convince myself of that.  It will always be some kind of deeply instilled societal norm that produces self-deprecation--I do not know how I could so reverently adhere to a destructive society.  Maybe, just maybe, I am only angry.