Handsome with flowery words,

But his flowers are pale blue and poison,

Compliments with a falling façade,

They carve into me, layer by layer,

Grasping onto my fleeting attributes,

Attributes he’s fine-crafted.

Picking and choosing his likes and dislikes,

It’s like he speaks just to split me in half,

He spits out the words he likes of mine,

A verbal Russian roulette,

Sometimes they’re honey, but usually they’re wolfsbane.

Could you blame me?

He’s delicate and piercing all at once.

Swiftly, and with quiet empathy to nobody but himself,

He shatters me.

I swallow my vocal chords,

They’ve knotted so the music stops.