Your Failed Masterpiece

Why don't you look at me?

By R.C. TaylorPublished 3 years ago • Updated 3 years ago • 1 min read

Why did you chisel me down like a daydream mattered

more than me, words leisurely sharpened on the whetstone

of your tongue to shave away my Aphrodite stomach rolls,

pour rock, molten with your anger, down my throat to quiet me,

collapse my imperfections, all in search of making stoneflesh

divinity without the fundamental understanding that all flesh

is inherently divine ? The hunt for perfection consumed you

and the cost was parts of me crumbling into nothing, and now,

I'm left in the backroom of your memories, with all the other

things you played with too hard until they broke and haunted

you. I'm too big to fit in a box so you covered me up because

you're too scared to face me. You pretend I don't exist anymore.

But, tell me, when will you lift up the sheet and finally acknowledge

what you did to me?

...and why do I still want to look at you?

I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.

Follow along for stories about a little bit of everything (i.e. nostalgia and other affairs of the heart).

Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.