Cracks. 
Subtle and nearly invisible at first, 
slowly crawling over my skin, 
forming fractols of scars. 
Suffocating, 
entrapping me inside my own body, 
crushed under the broken glass
penetrating through every inch of exposed skin, 
deepening with every thought unsaid, 
every night of comfort you missed, 
every casual remark you passed. 
My silent screams ring in my ears 
waiting to...

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Spirit and mind part, stretching out there seam's. Between the light and the dark, crack's are seen, visible for all to see. Imperfections are mark's of beauty, that never fade out. I am an old soul, with burnt edges, I am crisp falling a part; as time takes everything that I own. Nothing, is what I own. These are but my imperfections.

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What we are is real
and real is who were suppose to be
and If we were meant to be fake
our skin would be plastic like barbie,
but we are all humans.
Humans who make mistakes,
who has scars: seen or hidden,
and who has things that they wish
to change about themselves.
           ~~~~~~~~
But, our Uniquely selves
are imperfections of beauty
because beauty isn't fake; beauty is real.
   ...

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