You are as beautiful as concrete.
You are as terrifying as a tombstone.
You are split like a sidewalk.

You are cracked like an Ancient Greek
sculpture.

You are homemade cinderblocks.

You are a strong foundation of stone
embedded within all of us;
made stronger by your reinforced steel-rod spirit.

You are the archaeological remains of an ancient
city—all that’s left of a once great civilization
that knew what I feel now.

You are this Roman aqueduct, which guides
water from the reservoir to the mouths of thirsty
people.

You are a memory which remains with me
as nature’s weather strips me bare.

You are an idea, put into form, given
life by what I selectively remember.

You weren’t perfect.
Neither was I.

I was a cracked sculpture
too.

You were strong.
I was too weak to see this.

You came filled with reinforced steel
rods.

I was just an easy-pour concrete mix covering
the cracks as best I could.

I missed many.

You had the power of a foundation and
a support beam system.

You are stronger than death, stronger than me.

You survived a hurricane and came through
as beautiful as concrete.

You are concrete.

It’s true.

You are concrete
and I don’t know what to do.

I’m just writing words to fill the cracks
until my tombstone comes.
I’m trying to hold the sidewalk together
as people step over me,
trying to drink water,
as I’m trying to breathe.

I’m breathing underwater,
drowning in the reservoir,
lost in metaphor,
because I selectively remember being
an incomplete person. Imperfect, I know.

You don’t have to keep reminding me.

I remind myself daily
and feel undeserving
of your forgiveness.

So, don’t give it.
You’re as beautiful as concrete
and I don’t deserve it.

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