nobody liked it.
i wrote it, i cut out my heart at the dotted lines with rhythm and candor, I put it on paper with fingers trembling as they shifted, I glued it down with strong phrases fitting to the muscle that it is, requiring straps staples and all kinds of tape to hold it to its words and nothing more and nothing less and nobody liked it.
I painted it, used colours so bright impossible to ignore, used dark deep blacks and browns so raw the edges melted into shadows and the shadows melted into questions of what lays beneath the earth where man has not found time or space to dig down deep. I painted it with all the colours of the wind and the voices of the mountains and nothing more and nothing less and still, nobody liked it.
nobody liked it and not one person told me that they did like it by liking it. I revisited it often, the places it was made from still lingered on its tongue and it still tasted oh so bitter sweet. revisited like the unmarked grave in old and ghost towns in which people make money now in overpriced souvenir shops where onlookers look on to think of the graves and who lay underneath but not really liking the bones that were still there, telling not a tale of exotic cowboys and indians but of boring men and womyn and children who died from things like whopping cough.
nobody liked it.
i dont care.
i like it.
