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My body, a fragile canvas, trembling beneath your touch, And you, the relentless hand that scars with cruel intent.
You say I am the pulse of your art, Yet every stroke is a knife, every hue a bruise, Bleeding red, purple, blue, and black into my soul.
When I defy your vision, you rip me apart, Toss me into the shadows, a tattered remnant, A broken creation unworthy of your gaze.
You speak of purity, of innocence untouched, But it is your cruel hands that stains me, My blood seeping into the fabric of your madness.
I twist, I shatter, I die a little more with each pass of your brush, My essence deformed under the weight of your violence.
You hang me up, a grotesque masterpiece, A testament to your dark genius, But there is no life here, only the echoes of my suffering, And it is you, the destroyer, the murderer in disguise, Who revels in the death you have painted upon me.
