You are art,
in all the right forms.
Unfinished, unpolished.
Limitless.
Scattered
among un.feeling
hands dried up by
the creatures of stone
beneath leaking ceilings.

You are art,
hiking your skirt
up for the passersby.
Forsakened the value
of your beauty,
of how your imperfections
made you no less
than what you are.

And somehow,
I've impregnated you.
Devoured you of your
ingenuity.
But that doesn't
mean you bore
for me something
I could call art.

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