english poetry

Dead art

You fill a room with art every time you enter one.
Everything you do is watched by someone.
Someone who wants to be with you.
Someone who admires you.
But you don't care.
You love the attention,
you need it.
Like oxygen to breathe.
You don't believe in love,
call it a superstition.
You call yourself broken,
and you are.
But trying to fix you is a waste of time.
You enjoy being broken.
I don't know if I can believe you.
I am not you,
but we are the same.
I feel like you.
I am you.
A dead flower who learned to bloom without water.
Without light.
Without love.
Magnificant,
in her own way.