I am no masterpiece

I am no sculpture

I am no sweet sonnet

I am incomplete


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