Poetry and writing

Easy

My body is a canvas for their anger,
A vessel for their hate and hurt.
They paint their own pain on me,
leaving a bloody signature in the corner.

The painting is of a story I have learned not to tell. My father shall slap me and I will see the sun. My mother shall cry and I will hear the stars.

I must keep myself digestible, I must keep myself easy to love - easy to hate