December 23 1888:
Vincent Van Gogh takes a sharp edge against his head Successfully cutting off his ear.
On May 8 1889,
He admits himself into the Saint Paul de Mausole lunatic asylum.
It is here,
In the catacombs of his wax coated, pressed-to-package heart
Where his blood streams the will of his hand creating his most famous, and beautiful masterpieces.
My darling, you are not the dried up paint
Cracked off to flake into the air
Particle by particle
Being inhaled by those unworthy of your scent.
Don’t you ever feel like the symptoms of death-
The left over, missed nibbles of creation.
He ate yellow Paint
We eat yellow Paint
You are my yellow Paint.
The only reason my body has not fallen victim to toxins in my bloodstream
As he did
Is because
You have a direct biological correlation to my happiness
The fumes of paint mix and dance with the fumes of my despair
Organs made canvas
Premature shapes
Colors splattered
Product is you.
You don’t just coat my stomach with prosthetic beauty
You are the irises
You are MY irises
My darling,
I can see the starry view from my asylum window.
I am having my first out of body experience
That will not scar me physically as I shove my hand through the window
Just to try and touch the fire of night.
I look so,
Desperate.
Gasping for a single breath hoping I finally reach the passion
Every time I try to paint starry night it comes out as your face.
I carved it into my skin
Melted my flesh and bone
Molding myself into what beauty could be
But I am a 2D appreciating enthusiast.
I notice the fluorescent lights
pulsating
I think of your eyes and the way they retract and grow as you go from crying to
Discussing the way the flowers in your brain
Tickle the inside of your ears.
May whoever try to rip them from the pores of your skin
Rot in Hell.
Even I in all my idiocy know how
It feels to get lost in the
Tranquil trance of fragrance.
To be completely fine with disarray.
My darling,
You are my music.
I’m chugging gallons of paint closing my ears shut.
Whatever Van Gogh tried to silence
Will not infest my brain
Not while you remain a pesticide.
Not while you’re here.
Whispering. Humming. Kissing.
Breathing
The oxygen from your own plants
Giving me CPR
trying to clean out my lungs hoping my ears pop
But my hands stop you.
You’d make it too easy.
I want to make sure every word that falls into the cavern of my aching body
Leaves a seed that can only be watered by the paint that I feed on.
Insanity for a being.
Insanity for being.
I’ll admit myself.
The view is so nice here.
The view is so pretty here.
Self designed, molded by Pygmalion.
The view is so beautiful here.
July 29, 1890:
Van Gogh dies from two gunshot wounds to the chest from 2 days earlier.
The package, has been opened.
