The Knife Dead Calm

I wanted to give you the best of me
But when that wasn't enough
You began unraveling me like a tangled shoelace
Like something that needed correcting

Your lap became my operating table as you
Dissected every bit of kindness and goodness
Until I was a bloody mess on your laps
I wonder why my hands are stained red when yours are clean
I don’t think it will wash out and I don't think
You'll want to hold my hand anymore

You tell me I complain too much as I gasp for air
It’s always too much for too little, I should have known you never played fair
You can trick yourself into thinking you're still a good man
But I can't breathe, you can

I feel you reach in me, rearranging
Organizing, correcting, taking
I don't like it, but if it's what you want
I'll live with the hope one day it will be exchanged

I'll paint you a triptych when you're done
I’m not an artist, but I could be for you
I’m not a poet, but you're still my muse
I’d do anything, I wonder if you knew