He paints you as a
Bouquet of twelve fresh tulips,
You paint yourself as a ****.

I want to pour you
Into a glass and drink you
Then spit out your flaws

I looked at you and thought...
"You are the blueprint for the Taj Mahal"
I have torn down every monument just to build you.
I spit love into your mouth every night-
even when you had the flu.
I danced over six crocodiles to meet you on this side.
I buried the monstrous parts of me so you could enjoy the ride.
I WAS SUPPOSE TO SAVE YOU!

But then you left me for her.
The monsters crawled up my mattress and invaded my mind every night.
You always left your knife next to the bed,
but you never had courage to pick it up.
Even with my thick skin
I found a way to push the knife right through
So you didn't have to.

You are as tall and beautiful as the Singer Building in New York City,
But your father calls you mustard seed.
The slits on your wrist spell out save me.
She protested black is no longer a color, but her insides,
And if her mom''s job is saving lives, why isn't she saving her daughter's?
When her mom hugged her it stung-
The needle and ink stippled in her back the expectations placed on her.
Her kitchen is a court where her parents find her guilty of being a teenager.
Her parents don't introduce her by name,
But by her future vocation.
The pretentious white picket fence and a dog that barks when you call it Max are distilled with dreams of catching the next Amtrak to California.
She spends twenty minutes a day cutting the rope her mother has involuntarily wrapped around her neck-
Choking out the little identity left
She screams, "Stop tearing down my infrastructure!"