you say you can’t say beautiful things, but you do—
yet they’re leaving me hurt, and broken and confused.
in loving the way you hold me after it’s defused
is like some *******’s fantasy; i see the beauty
in “modesty:”

modesty | ˈmɒdɪsti | noun [mass noun]
your praise for my self-hatred.

you say you can’t make beautiful things, but you will.
your art is a luxury most can’t define
except when they’ve been through the same,
but they haven’t, so they lie! and pretending
is easier than admitting they want out,
but i could never do that to you.

you say you can’t do beautiful things, but you could.
they say actions are louder than words, and
you claim you’re bound to a chair.
“with wheels?”
“no, they’re braked.”
i guess your arms don’t work either, because
when I ask if maybe I could hold your hand
so that I can stand, you use them
to push me away.

you say you can’t say beautiful things, but you do—
because I think you broke me, too,
as someone else did to you.