Paint

I feel like paint.
It's a strange thing to compare yourself to,
but when I say it,
it feels true.
I cover walls of their imperfections
and with the passing of time and conversations,
crack under pressure and stillness.

I used to love to dance,
but you told me a secret,
and once you're gone,
I'll break into tiny pieces.

I gave you part of me.
Just realize that
you don't have me completely.