Today's gone and history, tomorrow is already here, a present yet to be written. And with all this time running wild around yourself, you see less the inner spark and more the dust that covers it - a sticky substance of plump mud that we terrorize to no extend.
In the relationship with yourself, there's no in between to express how you feel and you often tend to fall in extremes of love or hate. If it's the first one, then you cover yourself in even more layers of veneer that allow you to show off the spark that peaks in through the cracks of what will prove to be murderous later on. And if it's the second case other types of layers appear to conceal you from head to toes. Layers and layers of fabrics come in folds to provide hideout for insecurities and stained with red paint incapability of accepting that you are who you are and that the exterior is usually bad commercial for the poor soul residing behind the frail walls of this human body.
You fail to see the perfection that you live with 24/7.
You fail at seeing how you're a perfect sum of infinite connections that rarely fail you. You despise the way you share some of your traits with so many other to such an extend that you go for changes that leave you empty and shocked, unable to recognize the reflection of the broken spark of your soul.
Don't turn your eyes away from the windows that want to reflect you from head to toes when you walk down town. Don't run away from seeing entirely just how perfect you are. From the eyes that see and yet never betray you, but remain mute witnesses to all your dark secrets you buried in the sands of time, to the nostrils that puff in warning when you're mad, signaling those insane enough to approach you that joking time has been paused for now, to the lips that carry out the holy mission of lying with a smile hanging loose in their corners while you pretend you two are just friends.
Then your neck, who keeps two different universes tied together - your reason and your emotions - in still dignity, never easily bowing to bend your self-confidence and pride.
And your shoulders; perfect, round and strong bones, dependable in their almost invisible existence. You don't see them, you don't give them any attention when you carelessly sling your bag on their roundness. And yet they support your responsibilities with the power of Atlas.
Your hands are mere helpful extremities of your messed up body, right? Twins in both life and death, they strive to prove your perfection day by day by simply existing and obeying all of your, sometimes ruthless, commands. Perfect in their synchronization to provide comfort one for another, they seem complete only when you hold hand with your lover. And yet, the nature of their miracle is much simpler than one can imagine: their caresses are softer than silk, their infinite care for each other and together for you should overthrow Heavens. Can you count how many times they've attenuated your falls? How many battle scars are they wearing on your behalf?
Inside that chest you wish was smaller or larger, under your skin and flesh hides the last tint of spark that was able to hide from the judgmental looks you gave and still give yourself. How perfectly the ribs come almost united to protect it from getting further wounds than those purely metaphoric! They leave space only for the lungs who are like old locomotives, puffing in and out an imposed calmness during the most frightful moments in your life. How perfectly the long spine guards it by facing all those mean tongues that roll out only insults meant to break your spirit, your spark!
Your pelvis is treated as the subject of an odd experiment. Its perfection is even more disregarded than that of the shoulders, as you do not see its contribution to more than just pleasure. You do not see how its made so beautifully, so perfect in its fragility and how it helps the unity of two pieces that were made to be together from the very beginning. It doesn't resist much and gently wraps itself into full blooming, giving away its secrets only when you are completely agreeing to it. It never works against you, it never betrays you and if it turns out to be labeled as 'out-of-order' it gently disposes of itself without hurting you.
Then your legs - like wings for birds, they carry your flight no matter the weather. When your hearts screams in pain, they run and run and run till they catch up with the one who left you behind. When you wake up late and fumble around like the sleepy-head that you are, they carry you around no matter their own confused state. The ankles move like springs on impulses you'd never give in to! And so, you kiss in front of the door and run inside, hiding once again in embarrassment.
Why can't you acknowledge all this born perfection?
Why can't you see yourself as more than the visuals provide?
Your body is perfect no matter the shape and size, no matter the scars and paintings on the wrapping, no matter the adjacent contexts!
Can't you, for only a second per year, acknowledge its contribution to keeping you tightly wrapped together even when you feel like falling apart? Can't you, for just one single second, look beyond what you find so unpleasant about yourself and say "I love you for being solely mine. I love you, body!"?
"And for the times I get angry at you and torment you and starve you and keep you in frozen cold - I'm sorry."
