by Connie Helena

Because I’m an artist and beauty is all we know or care to know…we don’t give a shit about how much money you make, who your daddy is, what you can do for us: we just want to look at that one-in-a-million face, boy, we want to touch that smooth angel skin.

You are the problem I want to have, the secret I want to share, the key I fit into every lock. You keep me up at night, you drive me crazy, you make me want to punch a hole in the wall. Just accept it, you tell me, just accept that you are mine and I am yours.

You break me down, you set me up, you drain my energy, you deplete my reserves and still I give you more, more, more. Because what would I be if it weren’t for pretty little jokers like you, who think they are too good for the game but in the end they are the game. The dangerous game I play and play some more.

I’m an artist baby and you are the lost and forgotten soul; you are the boy in every Lana Del Rey song, you are the alpha and the omega of golden regrets, you are my true love, and you are nothing to me at all.

You are the problem I share with my family and friends til they have had enough, til they tell me to go home and shut up and get a life. You deserve more, they say, you are above that. He is beneath you. My God where are you, above-below-beneath-within-without, I hate you and I love you.

Where were you when I needed you, who did you sleep with last night, when will you surrender to the truth of our very last cosmic joke? The horse has bolted and the party is over and there you are, with your mouth and your kiss.

That kiss, that kiss, that kiss. You gave it to me then you backed off into negative space, you put it on my lips then you abandoned me to a madness too sweet to be shared.

The ship has sailed, the tide has turned, the moon is full and when it is new then we write the list. We write the list of problems we want to have, problems like you and yours, your brothers with the blue eyes and the empty souls, grasping for purchase.

Welcome to my nightmare, soulmate, welcome to my dream. Welcome to the most beautiful fucked up fantasy you have ever seen. I’ll sing you a song and I’ll write you a letter I’ll kiss all your lies away til your mama feels better.

Your issues will be mine, just give your money to someone else, because all I want to do is photograph those shoulders and the curve of your back, the mixed colors of your words do not match that code of simple truth: in the end you are only a man. I am bound and you are determined. You will inspire me but you are a tragic muse and the tragedy is all mine, my darling, it belongs to me.

This is dedicated to Elsa.