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It’s as if someone has taken each thread of you,

each strand of skin, and sewed into your meat

the lattice patterns that etch across your stomach,

spread up your back,

wrap and web around each limb.

A piece of art, is what you have become.

Become, because art begins as an idea-

An embryo of emotion germinating within the mind of a faceless person.

Faceless at first, all until their idea takes flight, for everyone has beautiful thoughts

but so very few are able to make them take root.

A drug named patience runs in their veins, as they sit in solidarity,

the needle balanced on their fingers, stained with failed attempts.

This idea, they know, will be beautiful,

and they pass knowing that what they have created-

you-

is a masterpiece.

Alas, they are wrong.

You are a masterpiece, the finest I’ve yet to see,

but beauty is a quality you do not posses.

Beauty is a fragile bird, beauty is a wounded seashell

beauty is the thing that you see behind the glass, the thing you are not permitted

to touch.

You are a masterpiece, your skin woven together tightly enough to be smooth,

loose enough to be filled with miniature hollows.

In the hollows I find the masterpiece.

Your bones are filled with silk, you speak like wool and you touch like cotton.

These things you are comprised of lay hidden to those who regard you as beautiful,

they see the man, filled with blood and cloaked in skin.

These things you are comprised of present themselves to me,

I see stars in your mind, I see fire in your lungs and a lion in your throat.

I must never regard you as an ordinary thing,

I must never assume you are one of many.

The one who pieced you together, the one who put desire in your belly,

they did not make you for me.

It would seem so, as we fit together as the gears of a well oiled machine,

and yet it is not so.

When I turn my gaze inward, I see what I am.

I am beautiful, filled with blood and cloaked in skin.

I was assembled in a factory, I was given my smile.

No, you were not made for me, as i was made for you.

You were made to choose.

This is why when i feel your breath in my ear

when I hear your heart pump beneath my head

when I trace the curve of the muscles hugging your spine

I must pinch myself

remind myself

that I was chosen.