he tells me I'm a
pretty painting
and that he'd love to
meet the artist
I tell him
**my blood
sweat
and tears
caused all of this
"pretty"**
he laughs
and shakes his head
hand rising to touch
a "no" croaks from my throat
**"you can't touch
museum art"**
he gives me
a look of determination
and says
*"what if the art
is no longer
the museum's?"*
his hands reach up
and he tears me from
my safe, safe wall
and steals me
he strokes each delicate
curve
with a rough, shaking hand
a hand shaking with
lust
he tells me I'm a
beautiful bird
and that he'd love to
acquire a feather
I tell him
**my feathers
help me
fly from
"monsters"**
he sighs
and shakes his head
hand already catching my throat
a "no" squeaks
from my chest
**"birds were meant
for freedom"**
he gives me
a look of exasperation
and says
*"but what if the bird
is put in
a cage?"*
his hands clasp me
and he rips me from
my safe, safe perch
and steals me
he plucks each delicate
feather
with a rough, shaking hand
a hand that shakes with
need
he tells me I'm an
intricate book
and that he'd love to
meet the author
I tell him
**I am the
author
and I
wrote each word
with pain and misery
and
if he desires to read it
he must gain a
"key"**
he cackles
and shakes his head
hands already tracing
my barriers
and what lies beneath
them
my mouth forms the word
"no"
and my tongue spits it out
from the fire in my stomach
he tuts
and shakes his head
a look of unwithering
victory
and says
*"what if the book's
covers are simply
torn off?"*
his hands reach up
and he strips off
my safe, safe barriers
he runs his shaking fingers
over every word and
punctuation mark
fingers that shake
with lust
he skims his burning eyes
over every letter and
accent
eyes that burn
with need
and once his satisfaction is filled
he leaves me
with nothing but paper
but I must thank the man
for he left me
a pen
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
he tells me I'm a
pretty painting
and that he'd love to
meet the artist
I tell him
**my blood
sweat
and tears
caused all of this
"pretty"**
he laughs
and shakes his head
hand rising to touch
a "no" croaks from my throat
**"you can't touch
museum art"**
he gives me
a look of determination
and says
*"what if the art
is no longer
the museum's?"*
his hands reach up
and he tears me from
my safe, safe wall
and steals me
he strokes each delicate
curve
with a rough, shaking hand
a hand shaking with
lust
he tells me I'm a
beautiful bird
and that he'd love to
acquire a feather
I tell him
**my feathers
help me
fly from
"monsters"**
he sighs
and shakes his head
hand already catching my throat
a "no" squeaks
from my chest
**"birds were meant
for freedom"**
he gives me
a look of exasperation
and says
*"but what if the bird
is put in
a cage?"*
his hands clasp me
and he rips me from
my safe, safe perch
and steals me
he plucks each delicate
feather
with a rough, shaking hand
a hand that shakes with
need
he tells me I'm an
intricate book
and that he'd love to
meet the author
I tell him
**I am the
author
and I
wrote each word
with pain and misery
and
if he desires to read it
he must gain a
"key"**
he cackles
and shakes his head
hands already tracing
my barriers
and what lies beneath
them
my mouth forms the word
"no"
and my tongue spits it out
from the fire in my stomach
he tuts
and shakes his head
a look of unwithering
victory
and says
*"what if the book's
covers are simply
torn off?"*
his hands reach up
and he strips off
my safe, safe barriers
he runs his shaking fingers
over every word and
punctuation mark
fingers that shake
with lust
he skims his burning eyes
over every letter and
accent
eyes that burn
with need
and once his satisfaction is filled
he leaves me
with nothing but paper
but I must thank the man
for he left me
a pen
