The Knife

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 in your arms
I wonder why my hands are stained red and 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 or 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 exchanging
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
But I can't get up and you're gone
So I guess I'm not an artist, and I’ll never be a poet, and I think I did too much
You're done, so go clean your knife
I'm still not what you want, and I'm not who I was