Submitted Date 09/23/2019

It began with
a piece of my heart
chipping off.

You held the chisel in your hand
and I apologized.
You told me you were just
helping me be
beautiful, and I pretended
to know why your
version of me wasn't
by wind and rain.

You wanted to be a sculptor,
and I understood how you
needed to perfect the curve
of my smile,
the softness
of my hands;
how you had to curb
the shrapnel of my voice
with the heat of your fist.

I wasn't marble,
I struck sparks when you hit.
That's how the cracks formed.

I told myself I broke
on my own,
but that isn't true. I did
exactly what you told me to do
and we called it art.

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