Bad Drawings

I pulled her flailing and alive
helplessly she struck the page
she cannot cry or disengage
and injured, won't survive.
Twisted limbs just brush her face
with lines so matted, damply grey
there's nothing knotted lips can say
she's sickly. Lacking grace.
Headstones for a human grave,
but how to mark a fleeting thought
that, lonely, loved but poorly caught
I'm too inept to save?
Stillborn on a crumpled sheet
she's fractured, tortured, ugliness
and further warped by each caress
will lie forever incomplete.