Imagine, for a moment, that which you have only seen
In reflections, distortion, words disproportionately
Silting, spilt into the slits of your eyes
Reflections, collections, of hazarded half-truths
They capture your form, but they can’t capture you
Perhaps, that is why
You don’t understand.
Perhaps…it is because
You have never seen your soul.
I have.
You are shattered in sharp little pieces,
Stained with blood from the hands which try to claim them.
It’s ****** and grand, do you now understand?
It is enough
for you to be.
It is mindless isn’t it?
Sickening.
That someone could love you for just being.
That this soma, this shell, this imperfect display
Can so effortlessly express an unquantifiable goodness.
You didn't choose to exist
to be
to be loved
Does it hurt to be loved?