When she left me,
she took pieces of me with her.

I was vile:
I spun spider webs from my hair,
I oozed plagues from my pores,
and coughed up blood just as red as

My vision
the day she told me
she was leaving.
As she walked away,
my tar-like sludge
chased after her,
and desperately it sunk
it’s monstrous claws

into its creator’s skin.
Mercilessly she continued,
and she watched,
and she laughed,
and she listened to my screams,
as every diseased part of me
was ripped away
and returned; just like

Rubber bands
made of muscle,
stretched until they
snapped. Until
chunk by chunk,
my sick, dark tendrils
stretched and
and split,
until I was

Nothing at all.
I was a concept of
something long lost,
something decayed
and smelling of rot;
I was something that
even the flies
had abandoned,

Until one summer day, you
took a walk
down an overgrown path,
and discovered
the bloody red
that had taken root
in my sloppy remains,

And they pleaded to you,
“Won’t you take me away?”
and it was on that day,
you decided to help me

Into what I am now.
I am not built from sickness
or disease,
or decay;
Instead, I am life,
stitched beautifully,
from your flowers
grown with kindness,
And from your oceans
filled with clarity.

I am everything,
because you love me
with the entire world; With
every ocean,
every forest,
every sunset,
all radiating from

a smile you’re
embarrassed of.