i am not art. i don’t have galaxies in my mind and diamonds in my eyes. my tears don’t resemble the stars in the sky. i don’t watch sunsets die and my voice isn’t a symphony. my skin is nothing like satin and i’m not sad and beautiful enough to become poetry.
and sometimes i wish i was. i wish i could be that person you’d write poems about. i wish i could be so broken that artists would die to paint all my flaws on a blank canvas and people would cry at the sight of my skin. but i guess i’d rather just be plain and dull, than be tragically beautiful.