Dear Artist,

Your kind is the hardest to leave and the hardest to love. They're the hardest not to give a fuck about and the hardest not to fuck over. You are the hardest to understand. You are the messiest. Yours is the kind that will leave smears of paint on a mattress, with no care for how the owner will respond. You will stain a ceiling with charcoal so that when someone like me lies awake at night all we can think about is the little smudge, wishing it had been something more beautiful. An artist wouldn't leave handprints on just anyone's possessions, but it would never wash out, if she decided to. Not even with bleach or baking soda and toothpaste tricks. The artist will drive those around her to hunger when they'd rather starve. Your kind induces vomiting. They will make someone like me so sick that her ribcage shows, and once she's cured, she will ache for the pain of illness. And someone like me might think that the smell will never come out of her hair, but once it does, she will miss it more than an artist could ever know.