I am your property.

 

I am the arm candy that you show off to the world.

You merged sugar and spice, only to

power-puff your dominance into my life.

 

I am a buffet.

 

I am hooked up for all to see, in my medium rarity,

knife and forks in the shape of rings and jewels.

 

I am here for your entertainment.

 

The empty streets are your catwalk and you Tyra Bank

on the fact that you have the loudest whistle so I will run to you.

 

I am not your friend.

 

Out of tight spots, you twist and turn to pull me out so

you must complain when there’s no screw.

 

I am your drawing.

 

Erase all the mistakes you can see and hope that the

extreme makeover will occur.

I am your fifty shades.

Flip through the covers and land on the lightest tone,

scorning the other forty-nine.

 

I am the distressed damsal, even if I don’t know it.

You armour reflects back to me and you tell me why

I’m not the farest in the land.

 

I am a store.

Everything is up for grabs no matter how bare or

hidden and frankly, first comes, first rests.

 

I am everyone’s but my own.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s