When I told him I ruin things,
All he did was smile.
I warned him I was trouble,
He said I was worth his while.
So when I broke down in his arms,
At eleven fifty-three,
He didn't run away,
He stayed and surprised me.
Time and time again,
I showed him my scars.
He only stared into my eyes,
And told me how beautiful they are.
To this day he's never left,
But he knows that what I say is true.
He's found a way to make me pretty,
No matter what I do.
He said I was a hurricane,
A destroying, raging storm.
But in the very center,
I am calm and warm.
He knew I was not one for "pretty,"
Whatever that may be.
So a storm I became,
Not a rose or the sea.
This boy is kept,
Deep within my heart.
He is not only my brother,
He is a work of art.

(m.c)