Am I Pretty Yet?

On the transience of self love

I deserve more than a love that returns

In fact, I dream of one that lingers.

A love for the thrum of a heart
That splutters, quickens, dances within my chest

Plants seeds along the curves of each rib
And soaks my limbs until they bloom around my lungs.

A love that transcends flesh and bone
And pours sunlight through my veins like honey

That trickles and dribbles like gentle rain

Rumbles like rolling thunder nestled in a grey sky.

A love that fears and desires without waning

That blossoms into blood and into art

Quivers and bleeds like wine stains among clouds

And finds home in the warmest folds of my skin.

Because before I am pretty,

I am everything but and more.

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