The Artist.

You are the artist.
The sculptor, who’s hands knead this broken body of mine.
Languid and lonesome,
Do what you wish to me.
I need to be created into something beautiful,
Collect my bones and features for the making.
But don’t leave me like this.
If I can’t be re-made,
I don’t want to be anything at all.

1. blowinguptheeveningsun reblogged this from sisterjune and added:

   This poem is so beautiful, and, of course, it rings completely true.

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