My life has been a study in contrast,
in small things casting long shadows,
and convulsions of light scraped away
from a canvas of matted black.
I’m made of flesh stolen from the poor,
a heart broken by its first beating,
a brain forever bored and boring.
I’m stitched together with grit and gristle,
snips and snails, dead-ends and dark alleys.
The world is, by most accounts, a beautiful place,
but my eyes have not yet adjusted to the light.
