Paper

I am never chosen.
Your numbers burn through plastic skin, 
Through cold perfections.
A loss is like a story 
And I write mine in warm waters,
crumbling with ink. 

I am trying my best
I hope you are proud. 
Your comforts are a breeze and I am wrapped tightly in wool to avoid it. 

This pen is held by a clenched hand
And they walk with boots
Treading careful dirt to paint themselves a mirror. 

You have burrowed too far, 
You hid under my wings and I flew with you, manipulated smiles. 
A mutiny disguised by laughing eyes.

You dug at my weaknesses
Until your greedy fingers pulled them From the root up and stored them as your arsenals against me. 

I made this grave with my own muscle,
Torn by you, a stranger watching on
Land over water. 
An oppressive load I thought you had dropped.

And my Platonic conception of you
Is once more
Disappointing.