You always pointed out what I was not, instead of what I was.
Over-exaggerating what was bad, but never breathing a word of the good.
Focusing on all that I lack, with a mouth full of "Should's."
You never loved me, you loved the thought of what you could make me.
I am not clay for molding your vision of a masterpiece to make
me easier to look at, and lay claim to, boasting about saying,
"Look at what we've made."
I was already the Mona Lisa but all that could come out of your mouth was,
"Why oh why doesn't she smile?"
(I do not lack, you do. For always being something that you're not.)