This was all my fault,
and he told me if I stayed this way,
if I continued to betray my confidence,
no one would want to lay with me,
He said this a lot,
And when he saw me with unfinished plates,
and my incomplete thoughts,
he told me no one would want to hold my hand,
He said this a lot,
There were designs on me,
on getting under my skin,
and pulling it up piece by piece,
until there was nothing left of my habits,
Until my demise would force me to be the phoenix he believed me to be,
but he said I was morbid,
and he believed this with all his heart,
but my heart was born from his,
from what was left of it,
and even that,
even that piece I was unwilling to abandon,
That I said to myself
Quite tragic. At one point, I believed you were speaking of a lover. But then I thought, after reading the line "but my heart was born from his", that perhaps you were writing of one's father. There is an abusive theme that is clearly apparent here, one that seems inescapable for the author. There is also a stubborn refusal to accept criticism. The most intriguing aspect of the piece is that the reader is not sure whether they are to blame the author, the lover/father or both of them.
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