my sarcastic artist

I’ve seen many strangers

talked to some

befriended a few

but they pale in comparison to you

my sarcastic artist

I’ve worked with most I hated

a few I tolerated

enjoyed a few

but they never pushed me to know more

my sarcastic artist

I’ve never felt so wrong before

and all I did was look

am I a criminal or just a broken pair of eyes

wretched trespasser or immortal unlucky

my sarcastic artist, who do you paint me as

what have you said to anyone

is it embarrassment that drives the silence

I can’t understand what I don’t hear

is it fear that I will see you as someone else

a prize attained but not earned, a trophy

of the most specialized, sexualized state

or maybe even less than, for I must be better

to never have done this myself

my sarcastic artist, I see you as a friend

nothing could change that, mistakes

are what make us human, and I

can only capture so much of our element

some deserves to be hidden, as you wish

even though it breaks me to know

you’ll be a stranger to me

and I will left to wonder what could’ve been

again