Stockholm Syndrome

Skin on skin & a fever within If life imitates art, Then you are a blank canvas. I am tired of being a mother Without having given birth Transforming you into the man you should be Seems like a job for your mama Not me. Stockholm seemed like my home For far too long In the bank of reality And you being the female robber Stripping. All the strength I possessed Transferred to your neck & check As I comfort you from all the karma You will inevitably get. Because you were a rose to me, & I was just an opportunity, Good company. Yet if you called me today crying; We'd be a mutual hurricane.