Dec 17

Poem

I created you. 
I fed you spoonfuls of ink dipped in 
kerosene, 
I made you who you are. 
I covered you in soft metaphors, 
made sure the similes were tucked
tight under your chin. 
I sang you a lullaby that made no
sense but you repeated it back
perfectly. 
I walked with you through the 
years, your silhouette shadowing 
me at all times. 
I gave you life. You cannot say that 
you were never mine. 
But then. 
Then you were not mine, when I 
wrote you all over paper and
showed pictures of you to everyone
else. 
I just wanted to share. I didn't think
it would feel like I was betraying 
myself. 
So the covered parts, the parts of 
you and I that aren't often revealed, 
were on display. 
The museum tickets were free and 
everyone came to see what you 
were. 
Like a zoo animal they watched
you. 
Those little metaphors I handled so 
delicately, they were mauled. 
Ruined. 
You were not mine, you were
slipping away from me and I 
wonder if it was after I shared you
or before I even wrote you down on 
paper.