Mystery bruises come in all shapes and sizes… But why do they exist in at all in those stretch of sobriety? (Taken with instagram)

Pittsburgh’s strangest son. #Andy #Warhol (Taken with instagram)

Bridges and baseball, Pittsburgh in the summertime. #pittsburgh #pirates #bridge (Taken with instagram)

But Andyyyy, I don’t wanna go to work today! (Taken with instagram)

And through all of this,

And through all of this painting of all of these pretty pictures of nude women, of couples having technicolor sex, of you on your back in a dirty basement, playing guitar for a crowd, of my face up close, every flaw, with no makeup— I have wondered silently at how blue your eyes are. And through all of this, all of these drunken phone calls, all of these hot, nervous stomachs, all of these misread words, misunderstood tones, misinterpreted signals, I have wondered if I love you. And through all of this you have mentioned, once, my coming to Chicago in a year. And through all of this you have called me babe, and called me terrible, and said “welcome to dating me,” when I, through all of this, said that I was upset. And through all of this I have thought of you and, yes, our bodies together, but also of our hearts far apart but okay but on fire. And through all of this, I have simply thought of you. I have cried and thought of you, and your potential sickness that I already call our illness, our bad news— that I already use pronouns I know would make you angry if you knew. And through all of this I have built myself up and prepared myself to stay with you, even if you are sick— to go if you send me away, but to come back because I know that when we are together, that you are better. That you are less of the synaptic neurosis and go, go, go and more of the quiet morning sunshine when we are staring at one another though the dark shadows of our selfishness. 

And through all of this I want you to know thes things, these impossible, crystalline things that I hold tight to my sternum with my tired hands. I need them back inside: go, go, go— how can they fit? With every heartbeat, these things fall from my chest more, more, more— gathering in my palms, into my gathered skirt, all around my feet. When you come home, what will you make of this mess that I have made? Will I forever be sweeping these fragile pieces of myself into hidden corners?

A dumb instagram photo of a painting I did from a dumb instagram photo. (Taken with instagram)

Still need to work on the lower leg, but I’m not complaining too much. (Taken with instagram)

WIP. Tired. Weird angle. Shit that doesn’t belong on Instagram (Taken with instagram)

Uniboob and weird man-chest complete. I mainly just wanted to put paint to something awful I didn’t care about. (Taken with instagram)

Good to know it only takes an hour anf ten minute walk to East Liberty and back to wear my dog out. (Taken with instagram)