Drawing....

Drawing....

I drew her,
Like I would a bath.
I let the taps of my mind open,
And she came out.

My pen skipped across the page,
to trace out her curves in words and lines.
From the midnight blue sheen,
Of her newly dyed hair,
To the intoxicating green
Of the flames at her wrists.

My hand grew envious of the ink,
As it traced out her demure figure.
Lingering on skin I touched,
An age ago it now seems,
Left only with a few fuzzy photos,
And her voice in my dreams.

Something sickens me about the way I’ve come to be.
Desensitised to everything, bereft of all subtlety.
Blend and balance, pain and pleasure,
Till I won’t have it any other way.
It’s what she taught me, a lesson to treasure,
To cherish and hold sacred, like her stained skin said.

But how can she mean anything to me,
If I’ve learned not to feel anything at all.
I told them I couldn’t cry when,
I told her I wouldn’t cry when,
When she asked me to stay, and I pushed myself away,
And her aswell.