I have been living in the farthest corners of my imagination since before I would think to lay eyes or fingertips on you. I have stared at artwork that begs me to keep dreaming even though I have forgotten what the nip of cold air feels like four thousand miles away from my bed sheets soaked in freshly washed clothes.
I have misplaced trust that I’ve stashed in the queue and nobody will ever see it except for me (and my glass of wine.) It’s okay, I’m only as crazy as you think I am.
The past is a knife that stabs me in my sleep but I still wake up and throw glares at the dream catcher hanging on my left side and I wash off the blood and accept the scars. These are not the thoughts that are going to break me, no,
These are the memories that have effectively healed me,
painted the shadows and made them living creatures of the past that do not haunt me, but visit me with a wink and a wave and eagerly serve as a reminder of the faults I have etched into my skin and across my chest. They scream
“Look at me,
I am beautiful.”