picasso, you are not

you're like bleach
you wipe me out
and remove any sense of color with your liquid poison
you seep into my clothing
leaving unattractive blotches with well bled edges
and moth eaten holes on my back

you burn my skin
leaving angry red places
that seem to pulse
and remind me of the distrust in your eyes

you wish to make me clean
to render me blank
and i know
its because you want a canvas
on which to paint your ideals
but i fear this
the most
because your brushes are tipped with razor blades
and your favorite color
has always been
grey