You were a poet,
I was your paper.
The thing you used to
deposit your angry words on.

Ugly. Useless. Stupid.
These were the words that
you tattooed onto my
beautiful flesh with your pen
filled with permanent ink.

Only to find out that I wasn’t
even your masterpiece, but
a marred rough draft,
that you soon replaced with another
clean,
crisp,
piece of paper.


© reading is living