I am artwork
Yet I have no creator.

I have rich texture
Along the bumps of my skin
And sharp, bitter eyelashes,
Coming from a beautiful mistake.

Long streaks of color
Fall across my hair,
A sunset
Painted on dead follicles.

There are flecks of gold
Floating within my eyes,
Illuminating a fear of today
And a hope for tomorrow.

Inside, there is shriveled pinkness,
Hiding secrets within its grooves,
Abstract splatters of idea.
Open to interpretation.

A pounding beat within my chest.
My drummer boy of days past,
Each tick witnessing
Every second of my life.

Navy blue circulates under my skin,
Through my veins,
Lining my arms,
A map to me.

I am a masterpiece.
Brilliance hidden within the shadows
And nooks of my body,
And beauty spawning in my mind.

Yet I have no true creator,
For while my parents painted
My original picture,
Friends molded me
Into a new sculpture,
Therapists gave the words
That wrote my story,
And sleep sang the songs
Of my imagination.

I am artwork
But I have no creator,
I am simply a byproduct of the world.