it has been beaten
bruised and torn apart
folded and twisted around and
stitched together again with fading scars

it has been squeezed
with playful laughter and gentle brushes
it has been painted with pleasure
and moulded like clay

its canvas is a target
made to hate the more it poured out its box
made to control the more it was forced back in

its soft creases warm my fingertips
as i whisper to it kind words
quietly drowning out fire disguised as light
wanting to burn me down to size

its hard surfaces, like armour
remind me of its strength
to keep my heart beating and
my blood hot

there is more of me to come
i will take up space

Categories: Poetry