Skin on skin
& a fever within
If life imitates art,
Then you are a blank canvas.

I am tired of being a mother
Without having given birth
Transforming you into the man you should be
Seems like a job for your mama
Not me.

Stockholm seemed like my home
For far too long
In the bank of reality
And you being the female robber

Stripping.
All the strength I possessed
Transferred to your neck & check
As I comfort you from all the karma
You will inevitably get.

Because you were a rose to me,
& I was just an opportunity,
Good company.
Yet if you called me today crying;
We'd be a mutual hurricane.