It’s unfair that you were the artist.
You created a work of your own
out of my skin and
lived for it,
breathed for it,
died for it -
consumed
my raw flesh and became
part of something unnatural.
You bent the colours
to fit your needs
and painted my face
in white sheets
that you slept in
and I ruined your
perception of me.
You take me,
Bend me; Brake me
It’s all I’m meant to do
So tell me dear painter
Am I your favourite colour
Or have you gone onto
Something new?