i was used to the bruises.
i had liked to think that artists had painted the colors
across the pale blank page of my skin
and every part of my body was drawn on:
my arm a dark purple,
this throbbing endless mauve,
and another a gentler blue
quietly kissing my collarbones,
and a coursing midnight colored leg,
that held countless stars from
the leftover specks of paint.
oh, i pondered often what it would have been like
to be displayed in a museum,
held with dignified glory and praised by critics,
to be immortalized on plaster walls and marble stands,
to be created with the gentleness and care
of an artist's talent and time and tenderness.
however, i wasn't a piece of art,
well-respected and admired.
i was a human.
and humans aren't beautiful
like paintings and sculptures.
they're bruised.
YOU ARE READING
tragedy
Poetry[a collection of poetry] tragedy (n.) 1) an event causing great suffering, destruction, and distress, such as a serious accident, crime, or natural catastrophe. 2) dealing with a serious or somber theme, typically that of a great person desti...
