You're Nothing More Than the Spokes on a Wheel I Call Moving Forward

And I see you
Through computer screens, windows, puddles on the street
But to you I am only a black carpet

Where your fist was now there is a hole in my softy bits
The riddle my clockwork is trying to solve
My trust crucified, fingernails on chalkboards, rusty hands

I’m a dried salted fish
Barely hanging by a clothespin on a string you titled “I cannot feel for you”
You smelled of mint drops, tasted of dirty windows

I am not your laundry basket
Nor an ornamental oriental vase
But I guess if you cannot see me beyond being an inanimate object
I guess I should tell you that you are just my poetry project.

Painting by Ra'anan Levy, "Vertigo II"