You likened me to a piece of art. Endlessly reflecting every tender sentiment. Every traumatizing connotation one could possibly interpret from the ugly world around them to boldly stand as a beautiful conclusion.

And perhaps that's what I could have been. Perhaps I was on that trajectory but it's funny how not unlike that same imagined piece of art, interpretations vary. Interpretations change.

I am art. A piece perpetually unfinished, left in isolation. Undesired.

I am a painting done through once loving eyes that's decayed and morally declined and become indistinguishable from its original vision.

I am trapped inside a suffocating abstract space where the only "consolation" is endless, mind numbing "reflection" that lost its value when crippling dissociation took over and my own living, breathing body started being horribly neglected.

I am art, but I'd give anything to be human.