I am graphite.

She talks about you, and you are her first.

Her insides were scraped clean and she wonders how you managed

To fill them again

The more she gave away.

Her hands and arms stained with black

Are the remnants of the mind,

The trace of nonexistent creation,

Are your struggle as much as her’s.

But why would you cling to her skin,

Not where you should?

You say, Dear One, look closer and tell me what you see

Who do you see where do you see how do you see

That I never left?

 

I am ink.

Your purpose is to turn her blood into art.

Perhaps that is why you chose to take the blame

When her insides would boil while her wings were not chipped

As the cruel mediator of time nonchalantly set back

To begin again.

She knew, and she’d wonder about you

What about you?

And yet she couldn’t ask because

She knew about you.

You are as generous as your promise is unforgiving,

That’s what everyone knows.

But how could she why would she why is she

Just maybe

Sometimes she isn’t right for everything.

That’s okay, you say. Neither am I.

 

I am digital data.

You looked her in the eyes and ordered her

To fight.

No longer shall it take from her without taking from you.

She believes you like she believes in the quickest success

Without effort, and she would think without knowing:

How could you lie to her so?

Illusion of saturation to soften the blow

Pixelation for competition of wits

Dye for detail behind the vague idea

Light streak for enlightenment of an end or

A process,

When will it work how it will it work where will it work

You choose, you say. You don’t have to believe me,

But believe what you see.

 

I am the artist.

She is one and separate from

What graphite, ink, and data can express

Where her speech cannot.