i read about serial killers not saintsshe says, “what are humans made out of,MisfitableGrae
if not emotions and quirks and mistakes?”
i think to myself that humans are made
out of sinew and bone and tissue and if god hasn’t
found a way to love us bloodily and morbidly
then he will never be able to look past any
of our self-taught imperfections.
but i say none of this, just nod and smile,
and wonder what it means that to her,
all that i am is a series of mistakes stacked
on top of each other. my entire body is a past
i cannot outrun no matter how many times
i move away and forget my name and who i used
she tries to take away my body, but i have fought
for sixteen years to gain these inches of self-love
and i am proud to stand before her now wearing muscle
and skin. i want to tell her that i am ninety-three
percent star dust and that means ninety-three percent
of who i am has lived in a blackness so absolute
that the only light i had was the one i created for myself.
i want to tell her that’s something i thi
|Hi. A premium membership would be pretty cool, so donate if you like my art, or are just generous I can't give much if you donate, but I'll check out your gallery, definitely give you a llama if I haven't already, and I will be your friend |
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