I'm just another one of his scribbled &

scarred sheets of paper;

just another figment of his imagination.

He makes me into whoever he wants,

moulds me like flesh coloured putty in his

ink stained fingers.

But I'm sick of his games;

being his damn toy, & he's my addiction,

my dirty needle and the fix for the day.

The nasty habit I just can't shake.

When I look into a mirror, now,

I can only see myself

(if I look through him)

So, he's all decript deceit, but I still need

him to fog up the glass

cause I'm afraid of what I'll see if I look in the reflecting glass without him.