Dear you.

You Are Art.

You are art. You are so beautiful to the humans eye, with skin as pale as the freshest clouds and eyes bright enough to hold galaxies in a single pupil. You are art.

You are the sun in a cold climate. Very rare, but when it does happen, it can turn any bitter scowl in to a childish grin. You can radiate my bones and allow my ribcage to spurt flowers of pinks and yellows and you allow vines to grow long and green, twisting themselves around my neck, tightening with every lie you tell me. Do they stop my breathing? yes. Do i want them to stop? No. With rainbows flowing through my veins, i will always break them for you. You are the sun in a cold climate.

You are an ocean. You flow around the room with so much confidence and ease, like you know exactly where you're going and when you're getting there. You don't let anyone get in your way, no barrier can stop you. You are an ocean.

You are fresh set snow. You are so cold and unloving, yet so sensitive to a human foot print. So easily scared and marked by any wrong word, sent to cause harm. Despite your objections, you are sill young and still easily broken and you know this, so don't give him your heart just so he can break it in front of you. You are fresh set snow.

You are a hurricane. So disruptive and loud, so oblivious to others and their feelings. You leave a path of destruction and mess trailing behind you, almost left as a warning sign to others, DONT GIVE THEM YOUR HEART. You are a hurricane.

You are frostbite. Bitter and icy to anyone who says something you don't agree with, you are harsh and you aren't afraid to make yourself known. You attack my lungs when I'm struggling to breath, and you spread along my blood stream to my heart, freezing it eternally, hidden from warmths touch. You are frostbite.

You are a knife. Your words rush past me, mocking me in anyway possible, slicing deep into my skin. You leave scars and stitches. You are too sharp to touch and too cold to love. You are a knife.

You aren't art. You are the loneliness of being in an empty house. You are the regret of a past relationship. You are the sadness of a note left at the end of your bed. You are a cold room. You are a  childs first tear. You are the abuse of hand shaped bruise. You are the feeling of rejection. You are the nightmares that stop my sleep. You aren't art.

All i ever wanted was the warm feeling of equally returned love, and you taught me the opposite.