creased, bruised, and probably a bit cracked
she was bent, in and out of shape so many times her feelings were far too familiar with contortion
but she was whole
a parodox, she was.
if you asked her what she loved she would probably tell you she was unaware of the word
but her veins told a different story, they mapped passages and roads, broken bridges and rigid ropes intertwining
and at every end there were images, memories you could touch and tug that would make her eyes sparkle
but you'd never guess it
see, most days she tends to act like her morning coffee,
dark and bitter
and I bet if you tried to count her eyelashes as she'd fall asleep you'd lose count and fall unconscious due to her surrounding force
she probably doesn't know this
but she is art
she always has been.
not the written or the spoken kind
but the kind that's hung up on a wall, highly overpriced and rarely understood
her edges were sharp
but she had no frame
she was art,
and I didn't need Picasso's signature to know that.
