In this room, my loneliness doubles because the edges
of the painting are no longer white. The real blue looks
thicker than in the photos. The source of the blue is no
longer here. What’s left, just the thick beauty in front
of me, the frayed edges like my filthy mouth for all to
see. I still have my soul, but parts of it have begun to
migrate onto beautiful things, like this blue. I leave some
of my soul here, three lines up, fourth rectangle over
from the right. My soul is made of words and cut glass.
Lately, the glass keeps cutting the words. The most
wounded words I’ve had since childhood choose to stay
here. I console myself as I exit the room. The people in
the room are unaware of what I’ve done. Some of my
words have changed…
You're reading a preview of
The New Yorker (Digital) - 1 Issue, January 22, 2024