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by Taylor Soukup

It’s not my fault.

I should not suffer the consequences,

Your consequences.

I should not have to be the

Gold from your Midas touch

Just because they weren’t.

Red string tied so tight to my wrists it

Cuts

Into my skin,

Into my bones,

Fibres laced with thorns and your will

And despite your honeyed words you seem unconcerned with the fact

That you’re the blade buried in my flesh.

While I think in paint, you think in graphite.

So neat and controlled your grey and

Correct thoughts are.

So wild and careless my colorful and

Evidently incorrect thoughts are.

Yet you still promise you understand me.