some form of art

I told you I hated

so many things

so many arts of value

and I did it to protect myself

explaining this is quite complicated

for when I read poems

I don't just read them

they call out to me

they seek out my weaknesses and explore my failings

in every word I feel not what the author felt but rather a private message

inscribed in each letter

in each brushstroke

in each movement

meant only for me

reaching up from the heart they pierce grasping at tear ducts

and again I am weak

arts reveal

they expose

in them comes a comfort but also a vulnerability

one I can't yet face

a self

a reflection I don't want to see

me

I'm confronted with all the versions of myself I've hidden so deeply

and again I pronounce

I hate them

for in arts I see not the beauty within but rather the pain

unpresentable versions

of selves I'm not yet ready to meet