He poisons my skin
with his inky words
displaying scars,
proclaiming faith -

and I can't believe him
for the life of me.

But who could blame him?
This kitten who purrs
for the motor of affection
decorating her own scars in ink -

art splayed upon tattered dreams.
I have so much more to give,
and he pushes it away like some masterpiece,
eyes crossed, harrumphing, and he's got,

somewhere else to be,
and I've got somebody else to be,

until he adorns me in sterling,
and calls me a precious gem,
to wear upon a stem;
a precious flower, cultivated

in a macabre garden.
Silly, and twisted, these
games that we play,
that stand the way

and decimate the potential

that we have exiled
through definition and 'what if's'

decorating upon our skin,
the promise,
to never let anybody in.