Beautiful

He told me I looked beautiful when I cried.

 

My sadness could wash away my painted lies.

He wanted to capture me in a photograph,

instead of paint a smile in my eyes.

Why,

 

Why does my pain give him lust,

and yet he looks at the childish stars with love

and me like a dark sky waiting to rust

and himself as the moon shining down on all of us.

 

I will scratch at his light,

Tear lines with my claws.

I don’t want to be an art piece,

A girl he can’t solve.

 

He used navy blue,

Told me only to speak colorful,

And live my life in a dark hue.

 

My laugh is too loud,

My eyes scrunch up too small,

When he paints me with grey.

 

Maybe I can look the part of beautiful.


maya.jpg

Maya is a poet who likes pasta.

Follow her on Instagram: maya.o.papaya