pointofperspective

You always made it a point to make sure that the items that were rightfully mine stayed in my possession, a certainty that held a consistent, familiar rule of mere logic. My young palette exists, lounging in a malleable state, ready to enjoy a new taste. Fit for only the appetite of a deserving predator, my elements become a sacrifice of existence.

The existence that I have known is no longer in recognized in mirrors. It requires a more intrusive look, a journey to the heart that I once knew. In order for me to reach inside and begin to search for the self I once held true, a painful acceptance must first occur. I have to accept the fact the ability for me to love another being is a truth. A truth of such detailed design, that my cellular body demands its existence. An existence that has engraved a detailed portrait of what love looks like, feels like, tastes like, sounds like and hurts like.

The preservation of these remnants is yet to be valued. Through tragedy and triumph I’m unable to see a time that merits an opportunity to release these memories and experiences of life. The feat of even doing so stands in judgment, facing an unknown verdict and left in the hands to those who have given up on themselves, settling for what was easily obtained.