My type is artistic. 

I don’t think I can love a man that’s not artistic. 

We wouldn’t speak the same language. He wouldn’t understand the notebook I carry around, filled with ideas and brief statements. The notebook that has post its sticking out with clever scribbles written on both sides. He wouldn’t understand that I’m glued to my phone. I’m constantly checking all social media looking for motivation. The notes app goes on forever, and my brain is always ticking. 

I don’t sleep well. I’m never truly at rest. The cogs are always turning. But, I don’t let much out. I can’t share incomplete thoughts. I need to process my process. I need space and time. I need physical contact. I speak physical when I can’t speak verbal. I need space. I need attention. I’m selfish and a giver. 

I don’t make sense. I live in beads, tees, and words. I’m my business. I’m my work. Everything else is an extension of that. 

I’ve only been able to turn myself down to hear my son. 

I need a man who gets that. I need an artist who has never been totally satisfied with anything. I need someone who understands that my process is a process and they fit in all the corners and white spaces. 

I need an artist. And, he doesn’t have to be a rap star. He doesn’t have to be a famous painter or fashion muse. He just needs to understand because his brain works the same way on even the smallest level.

3 thoughts on “My type is artistic. 

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