I feel I can't paint
Because my fifth grade art teacher told me how to draw a sunset
With blues and reds placed specifically;
A manual so filled
With instructions it's as if
Art could ever be perfect-
I wanted to make it my own
So no one could love it and then trash it,
Scratch it away
Into a million pieces
Flying into the wind and leaving
A cold, blank canvas
Incapable of loving.

I drew the word "Life" on orange background.
My art teacher wanted purple.
When I showed my project she said,
"Let's say it's done"-
Fast forward five years
And my hand trembles when I
Hold a paintbrush.
The idea of making art fogs up my
Brain like insecure thunder
Because I should have kept it orange-
I'm not a rock,
Hard and strong,
But ash,
Bitter and crumbling.
Every time I see faults
My thoughts curdle up inside me like
Sour milk
Infecting my systems
So I keep asking my boyfriend
If he loves me,
Telling my parents a 3.9 GPA and a size 4
Does not equal perfection
I'm bad at art-