literary.
10
DONIEL LEIGH BALTERO
identity
I am thou, thou art me, That snake, it envies, faced upon the mirror of lies. Sulking upon that putrid scent, unable to truly escape, I am thou; thou art copying every lingering essence of me. It wears the same cloak as I, Those eyes, those abominable eyes, it holds the same shade as I. A smile, so dreadful, it terrifies me, Afraid of the lies that hide behind those glimmering whites. Skin, milky and white, glowing like a star, To be pretty, to be handsome, is to copy everyone that is. To fit, to be just like everyone, For I am thou, but never truly me. Those moulds, they speak no substance, You are not thou, thou is not me. A non-existent mirror, slowly fleeting, There’s more to me than meets the eye, truly.
I will never be thou; thou will never be me, True, to the world, to myself. Breaking away, gradually, withering those chains, I am myself, and I know my identity.
Dirtied Canvass MA. ANGELLI AVELINO
She knew that she wasn’t that good at painting, but she was trying, and that is already more than enough. “I would just like to get these bottles refilled please,” she said to the man at the paint center. 5 bottles: three for the primaries and two for the neutrals. The shining sun was at the middle of the sky, noontime, and it was scorching hot. Her leg was fidgeting but she was unconscious of this. She could only deadpan at the wooden counter that had splatters of paint on it, fumbling with the plastic bag in her hands, in a hurry to get home. She hated it here. Outside was just too loud, too colorful for her already noisy mind to complement with. Taking the paint bottles into her plastic bag and leaving her pay, she rushed home. She sits on the floor of her hollow, yellow-wallpapered apartment. Curtains closed, her only source of light was a bright fluorescent bulb. Setting her canvas on the floor, she sits cross-legged. Blue, yellow, blue, dots of red on the ctanvas. Green, forest green, darker green, black. I feel numb. A simple koi painting to relax her mind, for fortune, abundance, and luck. My mind is decaying. Fill the background with turquoise. Pull your brush to create 4 long orange strokes. She mixes the paint on a piece of cardboard, creating a peachy beige color. Picking up the smallest brush, she stipples the orange body with black and beige, but to her, everything looks like black and white. It’s quiet up here, too quiet between these yellow walls. I’m sick. I’m so, so, so, so sick. Only the sound of the fluorescent bulb buzzing and my loud, loud mind. You took away the quiet! “Aghh!” She yells out, forcefully poking a hole through the canvas and tearing a rip between it. It was quiet now, finally, except for the ringing in her ears, and just like a tidal wave, it comes back and washes over her again. It’s not relapsing if she hasn’t gotten any better. I feel trapped in my own body. She’s only going downhill and she can’t get any help. The pressure of society calling her insane is too much for her to bear. Just thinking about it makes her queasy. The disappointment of her loved ones would weigh down on her. It would just crush her. Their perfect daughter, the only one they rely on to become the breadwinner of the house, sick with an ‘illness for a lifetime.’ Indeed, it would be such a shame for them. It would be selfish. Numb. Just like in a dream. I’m looking at reality through a foggy glass. Only noticing she was crying once the canvas was wet, she held herself. Why would you do that? Sighing deeply, she took the canvas and tossed it in the trash. Everytime she called herself an artist, she felt disgusted, ashamed, guilty. She felt like a liar, living paycheck to paycheck, but she was too embarrassed to admit she was working a minimum wage job. She was so bright, so much potential in her. What was it that killed the doctor she dreamt to be? I was just a kid. I’m so disgusted by the things that you said, by the things that you did. She took an interest in painting, as it usually soothes her. I know it’s been years, but I can’t just wash off what you did to me. Sitting her bed, she pulls her drawer, taking out her favorite brush. It was glistening silver, sharp. It made beautiful strokes, especially on a pale canvas. Beautiful red strokes, blood red strokes. I’m just a pawn for the system. I’ll forever be stuck. I wish I was validated. I wish they listened! The pale canvas is ruined, slashed with red all over. It’s just a retouch of the fine picture she has painted that has already faded. She disassociates but before she does, the familiar question she has been asking herself for years rings in her mind again. Why is seeking help so stigmatized? She knows it’ll happen again, and it won’t ever stop. Not now, not ever. Stop the stigma.
