I am no masterpiece
I am no sculpture
I am no sweet sonnet
I am incomplete
But.
You whispered that you'd fix me,
Make me clean and whole and new
A blank canvas rubbed raw and red
By your aching hands
To be turned into a landscape of some daydreamed place
You said you'd try
To make it painless when you broke me down
To build me up again
Better, so much better than before
A statue standing here for infinite passages of time
You said each word would be followed by another,
Another scrawl of your twisted hand
Etching out beautiful words
I would never be done
Until the ink dried out you would tell my story
But still.
I am your canvas
I am your clay
I am your page
I am incomplete