I am always

painting you without a brush

using broken fingers

in thick oils

to form the words

I cannot say.

I spill my emotions

onto the hungry canvas

that is my sleeve

(where my heart resides)

and you wipe it away

with a sultry grin.

In sexual contests

you pin me down

with angry kisses

and naked enthusiasm

that is just short

of carnal murder.

The pictures you take

are gray as shark skin

where black

replaces white

and the subject is  blurred

off center.

You hide your heart

in elephantine shadows

under well-worn denim
(faded as your selective memory)

and dress it up

as fashionable empathy.

In conversational matters

you kick me

with your emotional repertoire

and sexual innuendos

that leave me

artfully bleeding.

Paint splatters

like shattered glass

cutting deep swaths

of blood red love

away from my

anguished heart.

I am not the

serenely battle-scarred picture

you had once

hoped for

(and tried to capture)

my blood

makes me all too human.

In the romantic realm

we are

hapless razorblades

severing loves

twine-tied connection

behind seductive lies.