Behind The Glass

Behind The Glass

You see a sketch of me,
outlined in colors you want,
not the mosaic beneath.

My scars could map symphonies,
my thoughts dissolve constellations,
Yet you praise the frame and not the fire.

The greatest gift I can offer?
PRESENCE. To cradle your words
like heirlooms held close to my heart.
But you trade truth for trinkets,
mistake skin for sanctuary.

Tell me,
When you whisper, "Beautiful,"
do you taste the blood
of all I survived?
When you claim to adore,
can you quote the verses
that cracked my ribs wide open
to let the dawn in?