I’m degenerated. I’m a fool. You can read it in the margins of my art. Where the clean lines break, where the colors don’t agree, where something honest slipped through and ruined the symmetry. I tried to sand it down but the grain kept bleeding through like fingerprints on glass I wasn’t supposed to touch Every correction makes it worse Every fix just draws a circle around it I keep framing the fracture like it’s something I can own I tried to make something beautiful it came out… broken broken Not flawed just honest in the wrong places There’s a version of me that exists in straight lines filed down, export-ready, no teeth, no heart, no spine But I keep leaking through the edits in the corners, in the bleed in the parts you crop out so my false image can breathe If I erase it all do I disappear with it? Or is this the only honest thing I’ve made? I am the smudge! I am the misprint! I am the note that doesn’t resolve! Hang me in a gallery of accidents where is your god? I tried to make something beautiful it came out… broken broken And maybe that’s the only part that isn’t lying You can read it… in the margins… of my art
