My professor once told our class that there are poems she will never teach. She said that once a poem is picked apart, it becomes less beautiful and loses value.
Maybe I am a poem you took apart one too many times.
You tore at the verses inscribed within my ribs, chewed the words and spat them out when they lost flavour and tasted more like venom than the sweet things you lusted for.
I am the poem you’ll never find beautiful again.