Perfect surfaces don’t exist 

I am made of fault lines,

Of old and tattered parchment, a map of the world

Fresh with tea stains and synthetic happiness

I am made of metaphors and heartbreaks,

Of being scared more than I admit

Of losing time and people and hair pins 

I am made of aged red wine,

The bold kind that leaves you in a stupor 

Of too-loud laughter and too-big dreams

I am made of peacock feathers and lotus stems

And constellations 

And never giving up. 

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