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Art Poetry - Blog Posts
6 years ago
It drips and splatters over her forearms. Crusting along each delicate finger joint and congealing where it packed into the curve of each cuticle. Painting her skin gray like the dust of age and time.
It drips onto her shoes and stains the hem of her shirt. It falls in spinning splatters to soak the denim of her jeans in thick drops.
In this mess, she gives birth to something new. There, by the potter's wheel.
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1 year ago
it feels like i
will not be whole again
so i bare my teeth
with much regrets
my mistakes are a part of my entirety
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