existentialism and shoddy metaphors

I was violet-cheeked and
diamond-hearted; a work
of art in reverse,
tearing between my ribs
and calling it beautiful,

and I wonder now why they
never taught me this in school;
the sepia-saturated glow life
gives out some point after
you’ve realized wishes are
for those who’ve not yet
woken more alone than when
they went to sleep,

they never taught me all
the reasons why or that
sin tastes sweet. I met

my maker once in a backalley
bar, stormy eyes and peppermint
breath, charming off a hangover;
he sighed, “I know how many
days it’ll take you to give up
completely. I know how many
dreams you’ve sold away and
how many lies you need to
swallow before you can fall asleep.

I know that you’ve never quite
grown up and I know that
you’re afraid of me” he
smiled silent and downed
another drink, losing himself
in the ramblings of a solipsistic
existence where “I” am finally all
that matters (and sometimes

I believe I was built hollow
like the porcelain dolls I grew up
wanting to be. cold to the touch,
perfectly fake, shattered

when my little brother wanted to see
how high she could fall;
the scars in the wood were
her only memory, my mother
grumbled at the scratches and
waxed them all away) on nights

such as these I like to pry
myself open, in hopes that the
butterflies nestled inside my ribs
will spread their dusty wings,
and they will call it beautiful

when I gray out, colors staining
the pavement like some rebellious
attempt at leaving a mark,
my calling card,

a poet come full circle.