You criticized my art. No, no. Not critiqued. Criticized. As if my art was unimportant. Insignificant. As if my voice didn’t deserve to be heard.
You expected me to sit by submissively as you told me my dreams were unachievable. You expected me to agree, as I always did. To nod my head and look away quietly. Giving my consent to tear down my hopes. Giving my consent to enforce my anxieties and fears.
No one should be told that what they want is wrong. But, no, that didn’t stop you from pushing me down. From doing so to people like me, who scream through pen on paper, through paint on canvas. Who bleed ink through the wounds you make. Who cry for art.
Art isn’t unimportant. Written words aren’t silent. And, you aren’t forever.
If only I had realized that before you let the doubt in.