Everything I have is marred by splotches of colour.
The stains of where I’ve been are so painfully plain.
It crusts the scarred surface of skin.
If I peel it away, it bleeds.
You say you can’t live without me?
Well I can’t bear to live with you.

The colour of you tried to hide my scars,
And now all I do is pick at the scabs.
Trying to find what was real.
Was anything real?
I loved you and I would’ve done anything for you.
That’s part of my problem.
Isn’t it?

The past is always in the future,
Just regrets and memories.
A twisted palette of gore and blue.
If I tore my flesh,
Could I paint something true?
Or would it still be stained by you?