I heard you dressed in another man’s clothes.
The birds told me,
in a morning made from last night’s love, not mine.

In my morning’s weakness,
you paint pictures on my skin
forcing stories in me. With your oil,
so delicately placed with each
finger tip, drips into my blood,
making brown—my colours collapsed.

And you, an artist confused in pride, paints
in foul faces for expressions sake,
you are violent, vile, forcing and making fate
with slight thought of consequence.

Dancer of creations, effective composer of disasters,
sad and pathetic poet creating characters killing souls in embraces of love and envy,
let me be.