i could nitpick myself
for hours.

enough to establish bruising,
cuts,
or scrapes.
plucking every hair out of my body.

worry about how good
the language is,
or how pretty the dreamscape.

why beat myself up.
my thoughts are my own.
i only wish to grow into someone that took as much time in this as i do.

and with it someone who sees
and who can fill in all the silence
of the ignorance to my life.
someone who can show me
how I've truely lived.

maybe we could kiss those lacerations
and brandish those scars.
show and tell,
to someone that loves me well.

my heart swims,
it dives;
then it soars,
it flies,
at the mere prospect
of a life lived.
i only guess what words
define that concept
of what I've done.