Burn it Down
When we divide ourselves by expectation, again and again and again, we are left with a sum total of zero identity. Scrubbing the filth off of our own skin, until only polished bone is left. We think beneath this layer is the start of our own beauty. Hoping each revision is a step closer to perfection instead of a leap away.
If I were a painting, I would be the primary color mess, held by a magnet to Gods refrigerator door.
We can be art. Now. If we choose to be. But instead, we scrape away our layers in spite of ourselves. Unaware that we are only succeeding in rendering our canvas bare. It’s the filth that is the good stuff. Our muddled colors that shift and sway. That attract our own kind.
Our revision of our self is our own critique. Our own bisection of our personal expectation.
We change in hopes of someone to call us ‘beauty’ and cripple, again and again, the quiet conviction that we are.
And this belief of half self is the intentional mess that is a sideshow of color in a world hell bent on being different, only if different fits in its own version of normal.
If I could rest in who I am, I’d be absurdist finger painting, drawn by pigtail fingers and laughing.
Our true reflection is the puddle that ripples in shiny water. And there?
Every face is beautiful.
We are dark stained, knotted, and lined wood, being nailed together, screaming for more. We lop ourselves in two, so we can count our rings to figure our sum total of our true identity.
We are shameful, limping footprints that continued on in spite of ourselves, leading to the perfection of who we are, right now.
If I were perfect, I’d be me. Right now. Only with Gods eyes to see me through.
So, let me live in a fixed gaze on you. Let me beat your drum and play your tambourine. Let me be your theme music. Your overture. Let me be the first to tell you that this whole mistake is on purpose.
And just for today, let me say and mean it, that I am good enough.
If I were content? I’d be dead.
I am good enough.
And so are you.
