The girl who dates artists

Oh my dear

She’s not an artist, she’s the girl who dates artists, hanging out in coffee shops and gallery openings and graffiti alleys waiting to pick up the next brooding creative type just to end up making him take her to the mall
She’s not an artist, though I’m sure she’s suffered with affair after affair with depressed narcissists
Dyed hair and damaged, that’s how you like them. When she leaves she becomes poetry and paintings and someone else’s work the only legacy she can leave behind someone else’s muse som actual artist’s grieving exultation
She’s not an artist and she doesn’t want to be. Who would want to be burdened with the destiny of creating what other people feel of building what does not exist, of decoding the extremes of human emotion into palatable expression for others to criticize and empathize and characterize in textbooks and classrooms and elite discussions and other meetings of snobbery
Oh yes, he fought her all the way home

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