Maybe

“I’m broken, fix me.”
From the very first day, this was the only message I ever gave
Never realising I gave you the power to mould me to fit your need.
From the way I put my hair up, to the way I wore my eye shadow,
From the way I pulled my sleeves down, to the way I wore my shorts.
All filtered. Truncate. Fit to the way you wanted me to be.
From the music I listened to, to the lyrics I liked.
From the poetry I read, to the poetry I write.
All stained with your silhouette imprinted on each word.
You took over me, it feels rather melancholy.
I don’t think it’s fair the way I had to carve myself to be the girl you like.
Sculpt each part of me with your lechery.
“Maybe, just maybe this will make him fall in love with me.”
A constant thought pestering the vast universes in mind.
Hindering my entail to insulate reality from dreams.
I don’t think I understand.
I feel  untypical in my own anatomy.
“Maybe, just maybe this will make me fall in love with me.”
I don’t have to dissimulate any longer.
Redact the novel you wrote on my skin when you touched me.
No more the broken girl who’s left the fragments on the shelf for the sculptor to seize
No more flaxen fabricated, pickled with the flawless facade I craved you to see
Hell.
You never even knew me.