I wanted to give you the best of me

But when that wasn't enough

You began unraveling me like a tangled shoelace

Like something that needed correcting

Your lap became my operating table

As you dissected every bit of kindness and goodness

Until I was a bloody mess in your arms

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

It's always too much or too little, I should have known you never played fair

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 the hope 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 and 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 still not what you want, and I'm not who I was