I can feel you slipping;
These butter fingers are too
Clumsy to hold such a fragile object,
I watch as I spill the contents within.
The spilling of colors; they're beautiful,
Like a splash of neon and
Mixture of beauty, but slowly
The colors unite, becoming chaotic.
Too strong of a pink, too bright of a red.
Too deep of a blue, too disgusting of a green.
The once unique, bright creation
Is now a distasteful color on the floor.
These hands of mine, they let you fall,
Breaking you into tiny, tiny pieces.
Sharp, pointy, dangerous pieces,
That could cut through the skin.
I attempt to pick you up, to lift you,
But your sharp edges cut my
Delicate, guilty fingers and make it
Hard to hold you again.
I want to put you back together,
I want to attempt to re-create,
But you will be spider-webbed,
You will be cracked.
And even if I put the lovely
Colors back into you,
They will leak out from your cracks,
And you will be empty.
