Your voice,
It echoes through my head
like a broken recorder,
banging the insides with,
"change,
change,
change..."

I,
did not fit.

So,
I twisted my limbs and
squashed my head
to fit into your little mould.

Umpteenth effort;
days of churning and weeks of wringing.

I,
winced in pain and groaned in despair.

The crucifixion happened as,
I,
heard me snap.

Now it chews on my skin
and clings onto my flesh,
as if it was all tailor-made beforehand.

I stride towards you with assurance
that now,
I am perfect.
That now,
maybe you'll love me more.

But,
you looked at me
with a gaze so familiar
that it pierces my heart
into crumbs that resemble oatmeals and dust.
You said,
"you've changed".

A claypot,
brittle and empty.
Cold and weary.

For I,
was that claypot.
Brittle and empty,
Cold and weary.

My exanimate body,
quiet like the winter
but piercing like the howling wind.

You picked me up,
and painted me with colours.
Colours,
that represented your love.

Blue for freedom,
Yellow for loyalty,
Brown for humility.
And Red - your love.

You embraced me,
and kissed me,
despite the coldness of my touch.
You painted me with your love.
I,
believed that I was now something.

And..
You dropped me.

Inside the bottle are the voices.
Trapped and confined, 
she covered her ears and her eyes. 
Paralysed by the silent voices, 
she could only cry.

There she is,
just sitting there.
With her knees to her chin,
and her head down,
waiting for someone to hear her cry.

Your love,
devoted and passionate,
yet proprietorial.  

Your alluring fingers trekked down my arm,
tearing my skin in halves,
like the my confidant pal on my wrist.

Your faithful kisses all over me,
reminding me of the possession;
your spirit.

Your dilating pupils,
stone-cold and quiet like the winter,
cutting off the vessels of my heart.

Clinging on me seductively,
and yet pernicious,
its your love;