Cunning, you gift a notebook, blue polka dotted harshing my chi

Manipulated, I'll turn this sly gesture into a scrap book containing me

Your beautiful words in-scripted, so carefully penned inside

Is this your encouraging deception? A ploy to ravish my mind?

I'll use it! Abuse it! Wrong: my sweet pretty little blue book

I feel you wont like the tune inside, my songs have a very harsh hook.

I'll rip out one eyelash mucilage it to page one

Butterfly kisses? All the flutters have gone.

I'll scratch my cheek: torn skin on page two

A piece of my own flesh from me to you

I'll paint my lips red: Pucker up for page three

A print of my kiss I will lay down for thee

Peach, delicate cuticle: belongs to page four

My tender tips can not caress you no more

Page five I have decided to give you my soul

Score down a raw poem deprived of being whole

You'll feel my deep exposure and all of my rage

I'll tear out my heart let the blood lace this page

Personal jotter of mine: weak not made from leather

So lets drag hair from my roots help bind it together

Tie all of me up in a savage little bow

Now my sick darlings you have every single piece of me you needed to own.