F I R E . F R A G M E N T S

To think oneself so very different than another is human nature. My skin is not so different from another’s outside of its hue, but even that becomes a match in the bruises of life travel.

To think one must fragment in order to present the most acceptable version of themselves is the inner genius of a child that faces rejection from the very people responsible for teaching them to grow whole, yet incapable of recognizing their own marred beauty.

To think that all those pieces can’t possibly make one human is the grief of the adult that has become used to looking at themselves cracked before looking in the mirror. Few showed love when fully dressed in skin, so artists are born painting light atop darkness that they might become shadows, and travel in freedom.

Still, the skin doesn’t change. The fragments remain as performers. The grief remains as ascetic suffering.

Then we receive gifts of the heart and don’t know which part of ourselves is the recipient, so we hate the giver for leading us to search.

We find the untouched skin, the unloved child, and the unblemished reflection. Then we love the giver for loving the parts that no one else could see.