The windows whispered
They told me about you
They looked quite dusty
And quite unhinged too

The bed invited me
To rest my tiredness away
Warm blankets, soft pillows
I think I must stay

Picture frames smiled
The closet waved
Did you keep memories
Inside of your sad safe?

A look in the mirror
Made the mirror cry
It’s been too long
Since they’ve seen my eyes

The vases were empty
The flowers are dead
How long has it been
When I visited the shed?

I walked to the shed
With dismay in my arms
I know I sound crazy
But I suddenly feel warm

Paintings of myself
Hung on the walls
They looked at me
Were they made last fall?

I walked towards the garden
Where the people are standing
I stood right beside you,
But you’re inside a glass coffin.

He distorted her. Slowly. By trying to morph her into someone she's not. She was being changed against her will. By saying that she looks better in white, she sold all her black clothes. He gave her roses which immediately became her new favorite flowers instead of bluebells. Without thinking, he tells her that she's way prettier without any roll on her stomach - so she immediately started working out. She started to change herself. She shed all of the weight that was considered 'disgusting' by the boy she loves most. Her eyes grew darker and her skin became paler. Lifeless. As if all positive energy was drained from her soul and now she's just a skeleton.
A mere lifeless skeleton.

I believed you were a painter. Your hands, your arms – they were meant to create art. They were meant to create beautiful masterpieces. I believe I am the empty canvas and you stroke me with harsh resentment. Now, I’m colourful. Are you happy now, painter? Are you happy that red paint trickled down the canvas, where you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the canvas have feelings too? Are you happy that traces of violet paint smeared all throughout the once white and pure canvas?  Are you done with your masterpiece? Or is your masterpiece still not finished?