the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statue, a prison,
a tasteless reproduction of a child's Heaven
but you are no museum.
you may hang yourself in gilded frames,
forcing masses to silence with obscurity,
but that does not make you a hallowed hall.
no, I fear you're no Metropolitan.
you look at me, daring to think you understand.
your words trickle from my lips like a waterfall
as you tell me what a strange and marvelous Chimera I am.
your voice scratches at my spine, persistent, but
I've long since lost feeling in these flimsy balsa bones.
you think I'm your tangled marionette, a plaything
you awkwardly stitched long ago,
but I'm here to prove you wrong:
I tied myself up and hung from the rafters
a hundred times before I felt your touch.
today, I write you my goodbye letter.
you never suspected that your Pinocchio girl
could pick up scissors and cut herself free.
you were too busy playing god to notice.
the farther I run from your twisted lunatic asylum,
the more I realize that you're no Louvre.
you sad boy, you're no museum.