Poetry

Mosaic

I'm sorry

You do not receive me 'whole'

I'm sorry that experience won't be 'yours to claim'

But I am nothing to claim

Nothing to possess

Nothing to conquer or tame

In my defense

I was taught this is what they want

That this is all they want

Yet

I was never taught how to paint the mosaic of me

Painting was shameful

Constantly seeking a guiding hand

Only to find hands

With broken brushes

And scars

The paint craved must be made by hand

I'm sorry I was wounded

That the need for paint

blinded the true art of me

I could not see farther than my own need

My need for

Attention

Affection

Admiration

Love

I'm sorry my brushes were broke

bartering my body for dried paint

Bartering my body for more broken brushes

Sweet words whispering

echos of nothing

I took it

I took it and held on

Held on to the promise

Held onto potential

Held on to a mere scrap of canvas

All for the mosaic

Falsity of love

How was I to know it to be false

When I have never experienced real

I won't apologize for it now

Now

My brushes are of the highest quality

Now

My canvas looks like a circus of colors

Now

My paints are ever changing

Now

Im painting my own mosiac

Now

The oils allow me to slip past you

Now

I expect it to be as I've created it to be,

Even as I change the brush strokes

For I create my true mosaic