They could tie a bow around you,
They could even make you shine;
They could polish every corner,
Straighten out your jagged lines.
They could find a chewy center,
They could make you tasty, too.
They could, they could…
But I could never trust the sculptor
Who upon the blame does rest,
And I could never pay the artist
Whose painting I do so detest.
And I could never love another,
Never having loved at all;
Murdered is that part of me now,
Heeding only siren calls.
So they could fucking fix you up and
Reassemble every part,
They could lacquer you to death and
Make sure you don’t fall apart.
But I will always know what you are,
Those things inside that make you tick,
And I will ever seek to show them
Those twisted gears, that burnt-out wick.
Your change is only superficial–
You and I, we know it’s true.
You know and they know
And I know.
Tim Royan is a writer and journalist from Los Angeles who is currently being cooked alive in Phoenix. His writing has appeared in Esthesis Magazine, The Arizona Republic, Tuscon Weekly and Arizona PBS. When he’s not trying to arrange words in a pleasing sequence, Tim is usually playing, writing, listening to or ranting about music. He is known to go on tangents.