• I used to wear snow boots, no matter the actual weather. That habit followed me to my early teens where I now wear mix-matched earrings, eat Oreos only on Saturday, and listen to music no one even knows about. Patterns and prints started to reflect not only in my fashion sense but also in my works as I watched people slip from my fingertips and into the mainstream society I had grown to hate. Walking down dirt roads of red clay and moss was a tradition along with letting the sun color my body. I was not ashamed.

    He came out of nowhere, a detour on the set life I had adapted to, but I didn't mind; the dirt roads seemed prosaic. Kisses in the dirt, in the grass, in class, I had perfection in human form. No more red-orange sneakers, I needed black Mary-Janes (at least that's what he said). Words didn't need to be poetic anymore. They were quickly written and accepted by the many that adored them. We wrote to one another with super speed, saying we loved each other and admitting we had it set for the rest of our lives. Lying had become so easy I didn't even notice I was doing it.

    "Your face is a minor detail." At the time it was sweet, (at the time he was perfect). I had grown accustomed to never receiving compliments and overanalyzing words, part of being a poet I said, that it didn't even hurt. For so many years I lied to myself, in such a horrendous way. I had seen many confident poets; many beautiful girls write sonnet after sonnet and yet I blamed an art for my dejected life. Breaking mirrors on purpose wasn't the same without him being able to write something witty about it and the words finally decided to give up on me like I had given up on them long ago.

    They say you apply art, like you apply ink to paper or apply for a job. They never mentioned you would have to apply art to your life. They never said simple words on paper could make people hate you, make people love you. They casually forgot to admit that no one wants to be close to someone with a metaphor for everything and a sarcastic remark for those stuck in between. I do not know who this "They" is, but they were wrong. Art isn't something you simply apply, it's something you choose.