You sketched me out with grey designs,
leaving room for changes.
You edited my story lines
by deleting all our pages.

You painted me with watercolors,
leaving an ever-changing hue.
Yet in the end what should’ve been
a familiar face, was one you barely knew.

All your teardrops on the paper
left marks between erased lines.
So it became so clear, my dear,
how much you had changed your mind.

Erasing, changing, rearranging
until you were done and pleased.
Then you stepped back to find that you
made me a disaster-piece.