“this art doesn’t move me.”

but when i see you, it does.

there’s power in being cut open

and forcing yourself into the light 

every crevice illuminated 

so the cracks show the mosaic 

of all that it means to be human. 

you are art. 

you are made of all things 

both vile and holy, 

of all things that are 

seen and unseen. 

you carry your faith in your fingertips. 

every object you touch

is both blessed, 

and cursed

to have known your presence 

even if just for a second, 

for a passing ghost in a desolate waste. 

i am in awe of you, 

i see your aura and wonder 

if the world will ever dim your light. 

but i am horror in romance 

out of place in the sweetest of moments —

and there’s a bit of irony to it all. 

we are masterpieces, 

made of all the wrong things 

and stitched together with marred intentions.