I am an open wound on purpose. I won't pretend to be anything else. Anything less. It's okay. I don't mind being easily bruised, I think the different colors are pretty on my skin. Pale canvas, bright paint, the side effect being pain. It's okay. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve I hold it in my palms, offering it to whatever friendly face passes me by, a single smile and it's yours for the taking.
And take it they do.
Holding me between their fingers, some calloused some soft, seeping into the lines of them, testing the tenderness in which I'm carried, russian roulette. Guessing how soon I will be dropped.
And drop me they do.
It's okay. I know it is coming and I stay anyways because the fall is that of a roller coaster with no safety straps and there is something so beautiful about falling. About the way I turn to glass in midair. Catching light between my veins. Reflecting. There is a beauty in breaking I wish I could find in myself. There is such beauty in the sound of shattered love. Something whole turned to shards sharp enough to kill.
And kill they do.
Anything can be used to wound if you carve hard enough. Whittle away soft edges leaving exposed wires. I am a skipping stone turned arrow head with a core that still longs to caress silk waters. How sad is a thing that will never fulfill it's purpose? How sad is a person?
It's okay.
I'm okay.
