I got macaron dust
on my sweater yesterday,
making it smell like
too much vanilla extract,
and big boxes bought
from a wholesale club.
It reminded me of another
time when I also screwed
up enormously. I internalized
a reaction meant to be
external, making it seem
negative when it was exactly
the opposite, and I was
awkward and I felt
bad, and now I have
to clean up this mess
I created and call it
art instead. Poetic
liberties, I’ll say I took,
and blame it on my
unfamiliarity with works
of Van Gogh, even though
he is supposed to make
sense to me. I bleed
art through my arteries
and passion through my
veins, and together they
should make me into
somewhat of a mess,
but I’d like to think
that messes can
be beautiful too.