Record Player
I'll be honest,
I gave into anger,
I gave him what he desired,
But I played the roll of the looking glass,
Only to realize, he was blind.
Oh and if I could be a recording instead,
I would not want to be his record player,
His words cast wounds that might break me,
for breaking beautiful things is what he loves.
Scratches tarnished on my gypsy black skin,
dancing circles round and round again,
to play his words with mal intent,
- a lost cause to hope he might repent.
So no, I would not be his record player
- forced to repeat his cruel words over and over,
If his dark nails touched your skin,
break free and sing your own song instead.
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