Artistry
I don’t feel unless it hurts. If my mind’s not running from the implement of my destruction,
I do not function.
I dip my fingertips into the bruises and paint many pictures. The bones underneath my words spoken,
They have been broken.
I weave the pain in the holes inside of me. This makes my soul one
cohesive piece but it’s not a cure.
I can’t handle anymore.
Beautiful statements lined up like scars. I showcase my pain inside
this artistry; it’s my creativity,
my infirmity
