I became obsessed with a lover, once. There a few that may read this and think this is about them. My lover knows exactly who he is. There’s no clearer portrayal of him than the one I paint constantly. I became so obsessed with my lover that the only way I could have him was through my words. So I wrote everyday about him. To him. For him. Created him. Recreated him. Repainted every inch of his beautifully coated skin. He was dipped in the richest of chocolates known to man, my god was he delicious. I wrote myself in love with this man. I wanted the image I had of him to be nothing less than the truth. There are so many ways to be in this world and I decided to become delusional. It’s not like I could never have this man. Somethings just don’t make sense and becoming more than just his favorite fresh fruit was just never a possibility. It was more of a fantasy. A fantasy of pure lust and desire. He was my fire. The man was passion. What he created in me was more powerful than what any man had ever done. He gave me life. He gave my words life. He became more than just my lover and I began to realize, I needed this man more than he ever cared to need me. It’s a tricky thing these affairs are ya know, parading around in nothing but skin and asking for nothing more than openness. I’ve spoken on this before about the dangers of what us lovers ask of each other. It’s tricky but the outcome, for some, is beautiful. Because of my lover I dug deeper into my words, into my desires of him. He forced me to remain in touch with my sexuality and I lived there. I lived there for so long that I, in return, created this.
If it wasn’t for my lover I would have never known such a passion. I would have never been able to create what I have.
I am a writer and my lover was my art.