concept: i live art, i breathe art. my skin is a canvas. i want to be a blank sheet, if you will be the pen. i want to have tattoos scattered across my body like clothes on my tenth grade self’s floor. i want tiny, simple drawings to dot my hands and trail up my arms, and flowers to bloom on my collarbones and around my hips. i want watercolor to drip down my neck onto the small of my back and cover the constellations inked into my skin. i want words, the words that make up my very existence to be strewn around my ankles in a haphazard battle of drunken laughter and teardrops that seep through the ink and stain the bones below my paper skin. i want galaxies around my waist and entire oceans behind my ears, and huge booming cities dancing underneath my jawline. my body is not a temple, it is a map, open for all to read but never revealing where the treasure is hidden. for the treasure is not for their taking, it is for my happiness, and my simple pleasures lie in the music of pen against paper.
i live art.
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