Wrinkles atop the surface
of my fresh adulthood,
layered over scars
I hold as childhood memories.
My skin, the only truth I know.
A twenty two year sculpture produced
from everything I have touched,
everything that has touched me back.
I wonder if he will stand beside
and help mold the clay.
Or, will he vanish one night,
closing the door to the exhibition
I have confined myself to,
leaving me alone
as the unfinished sculpture
I have become.
Dec 7, 2025
Dec 7, 2025 at 9:56 PM UTC
Wrinkles atop the surface
of my fresh adulthood,
layered over scars
I hold as childhood memories.
My skin, the only truth I know.
A twenty two year sculpture produced
from everything I have touched,
everything that has touched me back.
I wonder if he will stand beside
and help mold the clay.
Or, will he vanish one night,
closing the door to the exhibition
I have confined myself to,
leaving me alone
as the unfinished sculpture
I have become.