It's A Love-Hate Thing (poetry)

Poem Thirteen

Someone once covered my canvas in a
ravaging shade of black.
I was unable to see the picture before me.
Instead, I felt the searing inflamed pain as I looked
at the dark gruesome paint of destruction.
With shaking marred hands and an insufferable
maimed heart,
I took a jagged lost piece of myself and savagely
slaughtered the canvas.
Deep revolting gashes arrayed it's sleek surface
and completely damaged the portrait.
With a weak satisfied breath of relief,
I fell to my knees.
I still may not see my previous picture,
But I tore down what they wanted me to see.
I'd rather have no canvas than have
one painted for me.

//Shanielle☁️