He painted me in jists but I have parts of me, parts of me that are left undiscovered, untouched by the gush of winds. Abandoned in corners of the world, they speak of who I am. Half, un-imagined he left me tattered without them. So I crawl and curl in my own vicinity, I hide my presence for absence left unaccustomed. I conceal the pieces he painted to find the pieces from a writer's mercy. I have parts of me, unanswered. Who made me? Who found me not? Who to blame? Who to find?
IMAGE- PINTEREST
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