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.