Are you seeing my body as a portrait,
With painted fields of flowers and streams?
Not a picture of a one night stand and a text forgetting my name?
"I won't regret this" his husky voice kisses my ear.
He paints with purples and blues across my thighs,
And around my neck.
I was always told to never fall for a painter because
Once they finish their masterpiece
They are on to the next, tossing away the last one.
I became a sculpture, with bodies as my canvas
And my nails as my tools.
He was painting my body, as i was carving into his.
Leaving marks and naming my territory.
Soon i discovered i was made to be a poet,
Striking people with my words,
No longer using my fingers to leave messages but my voice.
I learned to hurt people in the best ways.
But in worse ways he left me.
