his palette was made of shades
of blue and purple.
he painted night skies
and thunder storms
upon her skin,
and she,
she was his canvas.
she wasnt sure why
he had chosen her
to sprinkle galaxies
and stars on,
and she wasnt sure
why he couldnt just
stop.
soon, shades
of red were added to
that palette, and again,
she was his canvas.
he painted roses
and bleeding rivers
upon her face,
leaving permanent remains
of his work.
she cried, colors
draining from her
soul as he added colors
to her skin. he just
wouldnt stop painting.
her tears eventually
made the colors run
and mix with each other.
it created a color
so dark and cold.
a color that was lifeless
and empty. a color
that was dead.
a color that was her.
she was no longer
his canvas because
he had covered her skin
with too many night skies,
thunder storms,
galaxies,
roses,
and bleeding rivers.
now she was nothing,
all because he just wouldnt
stop painting.
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this was creative writting essay and its about domestic violence
