These words are sad and fat and
not yours.
I cut them up with a butter knife. Jagged,
distorting the paragraphs I had painted
you with my mind’s watercolors.

These fingers are not yours,
this nimble mind is not yours.
This paint water that floods my heart,
dense and dirty brown, is
not yours.

The janitor will be here soon.
She will mop up the mess
and oil the hinges of my heart’s door
so that they can open once more.
The flood gates were down.
She takes care of me.

This mess is not yours.