I’m the excuse in their lips
The “but” in their melancholy
Never the exception
Never the full stop…
Like the painter’s brush
I dance in symphony …
An idea too grand
To hold me in his heart
He straightens my edges
Hides my scars …
He Claims I’m “his girl”
The only best thing to be
When all I’m to him
Is ruffled garbage bag
A broken china
With a wilting beauty…
A heart once mighty
That needs to be fixed
If she is to be loved.
As if this is love.
medicinetokillsoul 