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 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 is a poet who likes pasta.
Follow her on Instagram: maya.o.papaya