My legs held the murals you painted on my skin,
Themes of purple, vermillion and hatred in lines thin.
Thinner than the skeleton of a person that remains,
Thinner than your remorse for the sick games.
An abstract piece of work in dark hues,
Some would call it domestic abuse.
I could make art too,
Not in the way you do.
But with rough strokes and vermillion running near ropes,
And tears cascading down porcelain skin, I had high hopes.
YOU ARE READING
recollection.
PoetryPoems written by yours truly. From points of view that aren't always my own. They're all written by me, just written about different perspectives. Please dont claim these as your own... Trigger warning: One or more of these poems contain mature co...
