I would go to museums to take pictures
in front of paintings in tight skirts looking away from the camera
I would post them in black and white.
I would notice guards staring at me
with a sneer, or indifference,
and wonder
which was older
and which had grown.

I’ve never been able to as easily decipher artwork as I do literature.
Museums have never felt as personal,
and even putting pen to a print is ‘in bad taste.’
We can talk about it, write about it,
but please don’t touch.

I write all over my books.

I can pretend my fanatics were an oversimplification of this,
that I relished in my social photos instead of taking time with the art around me
not because I was thick, but because I was distanced
and felt the art as a whole, not as its singularities,

what b-------.

I was superficial. That’s alright.
I wanted people to like me. It’s all natural.
It was always an emphasis of culture rather than an expression of self,
this is who I claimed to be, not who I was. 

I should spend more time in museums alone.
Then, I can touch whatever I like.
Then, there will be no one to take my picture.
Then, without blinded temptation, maybe I can strive to be that person I took the persona of
Without needing to tell
anyone at all.