I am.

I am but space

a cluster of mess;

my skin full of chemicals

that has let hurricanes in

and planets and scars

like plastered wax

stuck to my chest.

I am the white sclera

the peeling film

of tired eyes;

I am sinew of bones

that make up home

with feelings reaching

from the praline shells

of their seed.

I am the landscapes

painted on my limbs;

I must preserve me

and see through the lenses

of eyes

like the dirt of flowerbeds

with beauty built around them.

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