When I sought your acceptance
The only words I heard
Were slick-black and cloying
Spat with furnace-heat
People talk
About wiping the slate clean -
At what point do you stop?
I gave up after the fifth sponge
Too absorbent
And getting the tar-black
To turn sun-yellow again
Took too much effort
Crushing the slate -
To gravel -
So I could I trample all over you
Like you did to me
Was easy
But made me feel guilty
The foam sponges
Once springy-soft golden
Became twisted black lumps
Of obsidian
Reflected my spirit
Full of searing anguish
So I smashed them apart
Like the brittle things they had become
Now I am a tapestry
Sand-like grains of self-hate
Coat the fragments
Of my self-worth
And the good I feel
Smoothing the edges
So they blur.