you think there's something
poetic
to the scabs on my knuckles
and the gash on my cheek
but what about the blood i've shed
that wasn't my own?
what about that innocent kid
with a smashed in face and a broken
jaw? that shattered body begs to
differ
you fill in the chip on my shoulder
with pretty notions
about my ugly attitude; about why
apathy eats me up and i spit
it out in the faces of people who
"just want to help"
fuck your help
you romanticise my hollow eyes:
pale and grey and void and
dull at the edges
smudges in the canvas
'cause you seem to think i am art
i am not art
but the fire raging through a
museum
watch as the past burns down
get your cursive away from me
before i step on your rose-tinted
sunglasses
and slit my throat with the glass
do not write me as
a soul awaiting salvation
a tortured saint
an anti-hero
because then i'll be forced
to show you
a villain
that's right -
if you're going to paint a
picture of me
you'll do it using my
true colours
i hope you're good with black
