Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would make him happy.
Was he mad for turning his insides yellow?
Think.
We all do that in a way.
Daddy drinks hard liquor.
Mommy takes sleeping pills.
Brother sneaks out.
Sister meets James.
I see the way the people I love appear temporarily filled.
So I drink hard liquor.
I take sleeping pills.
I sneak out.
I meet my own James.
I am not satisfied. I crave the feeling of wholeness.
More experiments, more trials.
Then I find you.
I could be cliché and write about the galaxies in your eyes and the way you say my name.
But I won't, in fear of others loving you more.
I prefer the freckles on your chest, sprinkled on in random increments.
I prefer the way you squint one eye and smirk every time you see me.
The way something, so destructive, so smooth, so plain and complex
is the new lead poisoning.
We are in a world, where we all try to find our yellow paint.
We all depend on something.
Even if we know
it'll kill us in
the end.