Stained Glass Windows

I wonder where you came from.

What I know about you is only what I know about myself.

I know that you bleed every color of the rainbow.

I know that your heart feels like a sky full of roses, sharp and delicate, blistering with beauty and sorrow all the same.

I know there are moments you feel nothing at all.

The silence is deafening and the nooks of your mind linger vacant under silver cobweb ghosts.

But the silence is always interrupted by a wild howl, and you will always find life buried in the dust, because you

are antique,

getting older, growing vibrant like the ancient stars above.

But like the stars, you are a mystery.

I don't know how many times you've watched your heart shatter like glass,

or the ways you've learned to discover treasures in the rubble,

or how often you decipher between shards that can be made into art and shards that can only draw blood from your skin.

I do know that the walls of your heart are covered in stained glass windows only you can see.

And though my eyes will never understand the blues and blacks and reds of your scars, what I do know is this:

I too have murals punctured full of holes.

And the light that peeks through my wounds is the same light that makes you whole.