Maybe I'll just piece together the bruises that you left.
I'll call it a masterpiece; it's a work of art.
A collage of empty, poisonous smiles,
and bones you left exposed to gusting winds.
Painted in are the lies you spat at me;
the toxic words billowed because of their lack of depth.
So I'll stitch together the vast variety of materials you left me,
and I'll transform vile memories of you and I
into a work of art.