He paints bright yellow hues where my Indigo is home–
Never bothering to rinse his brush.
I know he thinks he's helping,
But this painting has never needed
his touch.
My palette changed in the years since meeting him,
Some by force–
Other tones by choice.
But this canvas is mine and always has been–
When did falling in love mean losing your voice?
So what if my skies are purple?
With pink clouds and
Seas of bright green.
If my storms are black and neon,
It's not for you to change the whole scene.
Bob Ross taught me to paint bushes–
Never said anything had to be inside.
There's one untouched teal shrub left on that painting,
It's the one place I run to hide.