I wanted to give you the best of me

But when that wasn't enough

You began unraveling my love like a tangled shoelace

Like something that needed correcting

Your lap became my operating table as you

Dissect every bit of kindness and goodness

Until I was a bloody mess in your lap

I wonder why my hands are stained red and yours are clean

I don't think it will wash out and I don't think

You'll want to hold my hand anymore

You tell me I complain too much as I gasp for air

You say I'm too negative as you cover my mouth with your hand

You can trick yourself into thinking you're still a good man

But I can't breathe, you can

I feel you reach in me, rearranging

Organizing, correcting, taking

I don't like it, but if it's what you want I'll live

With it in the hope that one day it will be exchanging

I'll paint you a triptych when you're done

I'm not an artist but I could be for you

I'm not a poet but you're still my muse

I'd do anything, I wonder if you knew

But I can't get up now you're gone, so I guess

I'm not an artist and I'll never be a poet and I

Think I did too much

You're done so go clean your knife

I'm not what you want and I'm not who I was