You pick on me,
Like strings.
Leaving none attached for me to pull myself together,
After the wreck.

I mean,
Do you really expect a mosaic,
To turn out like a sculpted angel?

So throw me all your words,
Use them as a weapon,
After all, I've already cut myself open.
I wouldn't need your bitter soul to tell me how much of the world I've taken.

And in return of your kindness,
I would take all of your pictures,
And shred them into pieces.
Throw them into the fire,
Along with your unrealistic expectations.
And watch it burn,
And burn;
Until the word doesn't linger.