You said the curves and dips of my body were the hills and all you needed to do was go for a hike.
You promised every single inch of my skin was as soft as silk and all you wanted was to touch it.
You swore the freckles on my cheeks and shoulders were like the stars and all you desired was to make constellations.
You told me my philtrum, the little dip above my upper lip, is a mark from a paint brush and all you aspired to do was admire.
You claimed my porcelain skin was like fine china and all it needed was someone to look after it.
My hills are flooded, the silk had been torn, the stars don't show, the paintings have been taken off the walls and the glasses have been broken.
