Lady Kintsugi
I’m a muse, I’m a mess -
filling rooms with canvases,
tastefully tarnished by pain,
a whole exhibition of grief and weight,
decorating heartbreak with fancy frames.
I sit in a room that’s empty,
with teardrops sealed in jars -
The Mistress of Kintsugi,
fashioning gold from scars.
Black resin stains my hands;
my fingers calloused, swollen.
A worn-down spirit — tired,
but never fully broken.
A forgotten soul, I’m still
bound by celestial chains,
sadness — an acquired taste,
pages, folded -
like origami cranes.