I can hear my bones talking to God, they ask him why he hates us and he says he wrote the fracture lines in our skin with perfect precision, he did not create us with the knowledge to heal.
And yet.

I spin in slow symphony around a heart that beats to the song of the dawn and is broken by sunset

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

The world is so new
Yet you have lived here before
Your eyes are gold
But your mind is old

Wisdom possess you
Wonder and patience runs through your veins
Your beautiful blue eyes
See more than just the surface

Creative
Intelligent
Innovative
Logical
And
Emotional
Angel of goodness and imagination