Ambling into class
my body swayed
like a tilting pen
seeking to trace
a plagiarised sketch.
The precision of pens
their stinging summits gushing with black ichor
ink the pencil lines,
an array of copied strokes
far too complex to be of my own design.
I await my fix.
“Hey, did you draw that?”
Dopamine engulfs my brain.
“That’s so good!”
Serotonin floods my body.
“You could be a professional!”
Endorphins drown my mind.
I scroll
scouring for art to copy.
Hours of dedication
to a facade of skill.
Hand trembling
withdrawal from the ever-decreasing
returns of undeserved validation.
Thoughts of worthlessness
paint my mind a dark shade of blue
shamefully lathered on a cracking canvas
I need my next fix.
Sauntering into class
the air lays still
primed for staining.
Leg stippling the ground
anxiety has replaced
any tinge of satisfaction.
Malicious maroon
blots my gloomy thinking.
Ping
I open my laptop
revealing a reproachful message:
<Hey, do you copy art?>
Panic
in shades of violent vermillion
and cataclysmic cardinal red
begins to overcome me.
Eyes swelling with silver tears of despair
Lips a pale sepia gasping for a reprieve
Hands anguishedly grasping my navy shorts
I run.
I escape towards the restroom
my trail bespeckled by
a frenzy of colors
an amalgamation of
shame, false pride, guilt
all asking the same question:
Why?
The adrenaline of the moment
tapered off
allowing more subtle tones of regret
to pop out.
Isolated in a bathroom stall
through sniffles and
bouts of bawling
I begin to ponder.
Art is
a fickle concept.
Ebbing and flowing like watercolor,
ever-evolving hues mixed upon a palette.
Art gave meaning to my life;
the infusion of vibrant pigments into the bloodstream
a sort of life-changing ecstasy.
Each brushstroke
observed by an audience
of peers, friends, family
eager to commend your work.
That kind of praise
and its symptom of self-confidence
a high not easily replicated.
Hooked on it,
that false validation colored
my world
in gaudy tints of cheap gold
worthless in reality.
No longer.
The cheap thrill of validation
need not guide my life.
Gathering myself
I exit the restroom.
The hallway seems dimmer
a muted monochromatic color scheme.
No celebratory colors
awarded by others.
No vibrant veneer
of success and skill.
Just me.