Him

Him

He showed me his scars

Lines drawn in her skin

Skin, that shows his desire

For his overcoming death

Like he was fine china;

Or designer jeans

With silly inflicted rips.

Because after people

Saying broken is not beautiful

He broke them self anyway.

His flesh was made a canvas

Of modern art without reason

Paint strokes made by knives

As they screeched across his skin,

Finding there propose

Rip at what made him, them self.

And loss, and rage, feeling as though

He was caged by insecurity,

Even watching him destroy them self,

Had elegance beyond words.