I am the aftermath of your broken promises and cancled dinner dates. I am the shell that is left after your words and actions stripped me bare. I, your tablet, your pad of paper for you to write and rant on about the things you hate about me. I am the colorless mold for which you will create more colorless beings. Who will in turn make their own creations into pads of paper meant for mocking and ruining their inner self. I,the creation you shun, the work of art you put a sheet over and say ' oh don't mind her, she's not quite done.' only to come back and destroy me further. You, my beautiful, funny creator. I sing only for you, I shine only in your presence, always hoping. While you inject me with your opinon of my hair, makeup and clothes, you light your cigarette of hate and blow it into my face for me to inhale. Your hate is second hand, but something that will damage me still. The contempt you hold for me in your soul, the only milk that left your breast to nourish me. I love you, my wonderful creator, why won't you love me back?