She.

8. Dark Heart, Light Art.

My heart is tainted with dark shame,
Pain and regrets.
Like glass,
Fine glass,
Antique glass.
Vulnerable glass.
My heart reflected vulnerability.

Slight cracks on the surface.
Varying in size.
But overtime I know the glass will shatter.
Into tiny fine pieces that will,
Cut up my fingers like splinters.

If I tried to pick up the pieces,
My fingers would drip in blood,
Cut up by pieces of myself.
Cut up by past decisions and choices,
That led to shame,
Pain and regrets.

My heart was tainted.
Even my blood began to change.
My heart changed it's form,
Deformed with mix colorization.  
Some spots bright red,
Glowing in ambition.
And others black like tar,
Rotted.
No longer in commission.

Take care with caution is a label on my heart.
Near the biggest crack in the center,
I pray my dearest plays his part.
I pray his fingers remain unharmed,
When he picks up the pieces,
And rearranges it from the start.

I pray he doesn't get caught up in my decisions, And my choices that lead me to distraught.
He sees my heart,
Deformed and vulnerable.
But he also sees art.

I cut up my fingers,
Trying to put the pieces in their correct spots.
But he has a way,
Of handling my shattered heart.
Had a way to stitch my cracks seamless.

He pointed out my flaws,
And called them beautiful.
He gave me pieces of his own heart,
To help mold and weld.
He shaped it with his own hands,
Until it was recognizable as love.

And he put me back together with parts of him,
As bandages to hold my cracks in place,
That he stitched in hopes that I would heal.
He turned my rotted heart into a form of art, that only he could appreciate.

It was dark.
It was tainted.
But after he had done his part,
He left my heart as art.
He said the outer image of my heart,
Was not an implication,
Of the beauty inside my heart.

That light shines brighter in the darkest pits,
In the darkest corners,
There was always art.