Work of art

 
I am a work of art.

Though loose in it's design, my mind is beautifully fragmented, multi faceted, so many different, tiny sides of me like a diamond.

And when the time is (or isn't) just right, I glow with incandescent light that flickers, particles charged, my energy taking over and filling the room.

This naturally consumes, and even so still the same stone I appear dull and lacklustre. I wait for my depression to dissipate, and let my mind wander.
This can feel as if it will last forever.
I now know it will eventually pass.


My pale skin, a metaphor of my patience, as white turns to red to reddy-brown to white again, a repetitive cycle that would continue if I hadn't of learnt it's lesson. That being that some are a blessing, others a curse, but there is no other than sunburn to be the fucking worst. Our skin has no dress rehearsal.

So earnest in my adoration of the one's I love, and fuck do I feel love. I absorb everything, overwhelmed by the constant connections, adjusting, emotions, attention, family, kids, kids, kids, phones, expected to being emotionally available, lockdown, that ever widening hole in my soul.

And a temper i still can't quite control, it's ferocity consumes me. Independent or projective, i've become quite reflective, anger can cover insecurity. Learning to let go of the hurt I have lived through, baby steps; it's all new to me. Start to pick up momentum, living and forgiving, but the rug can be pulled straight from under me.

The process of making progress and having to then start again
is laborious, little cycles inside, self saboteur notorious, and yet somehow through all the trauma of it I wouldn't change a thing.

That's a lie.

I wouldn't change who I am.

I am who I am meant to be.

I am a work of art.