The Blood & The Bones

I can’t write like you.

It’s not that I don’t want to. Sometimes I read your work and I think how creative, how pleasing. How safe.

But I can’t do that. I can’t do that because I write from my soul. And when you go that deep it’s messy. There are bones strewn about. The floors and walls are painted with dirt and ash. My secrets are cadavers. My memories are mostly black. It is not a place you would go without a weapon or would navigate with ease. In fact, I think it would terrify you.

Sometimes I do want to write like you but I know I lack the ability to be eloquent or careful. I am not subdued. And I have never known how to be. What I am is wild and peculiar. And I don’t care if people like me. I write like that. I write like I’ve been cut open, exposed, real and raw. Laying bare the things you’d never admit to. And while what you do is good in it’s own way and certainly fruitful for you, what I write is unrefined and rough. It has teeth and claws. And it digs in. Pulling you down to where I’ve been. When I burn you burn, when I cry you will too. You won’t just read it, you will live it. And those that get it are here because they understand I will accept nothing less.

So, yes, they will admire your art but they will feel mine. They will break with me and cum with me and sometimes even love with me. They will understand the depths that I have travelled to. And that we all have places we wish we could and pray to never return to.

Maybe I don’t write. Rather, I live and die on these pages.

And it will rarely, if ever, be beautiful like yours, but it will be real. And that is the difference between what you create and what I do.

the blood
& the bones

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