I move my fingers over your skin. Your surfaces intrigue me, so I scrape away the dust. Dig my fingers in, looking for traces of your past. To find what you did, and what they did to you. But there’s no story in the shallow, and I find none.
Till I scrape deeper. Deeper where you still have walls. Shattered, but not brittle. Some small openings, reminiscent of those who tried to break in. But not all eyes could take such iridescence. So they leave, running back to the dark. Broken is beautiful, but not everyone has a taste for it. All I find is old, broken, but there is this charm to it. Like once it had flowers and birds sat on it. Maybe it shone in the sun, and God touched it when it rained.