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.

Your words told her
to love herself.
But your actions told her
no one else would.

this
this is for the girl who equates a shove to the wall and stumbling on the sidewalk as both minor interruptions to her day
because it's your fault, isn't it?
it's your fault that you smoked one last cigarette on the balcony that to take the edge off
to numb yourself to his hands
how did it feel in that moment when his hands lost touch
your legs gave out
you were swimming in the sky three floors above the cement
was it peaceful for you to experience a high not accompanied by bruises
when you woke up in the hospital, the first thing you saw
was his face
devilish eyes now formed into puppy dog's eyes gaze down at you
he says he loves you
you forgive him and convince yourself that he really meant it
just like you really meant that cigarette to be the last one your lips ever touched
He peeks down under your paper hospital gown and sees your bruises he'll tell you you're **** even in the fluorescent love and you count down the minutes until he has his way with you again
he likes his *** filled with blood and anger
you are more of a fine wine with gentle frisky after tastes
he is the cheapest whiskey at the liquor store down the street
you know this because your kisses are never sweet
your lover's mouth is just a battlefield
all it is is a pouch with remnants of all the  shot glasses piled near the sink
he sees your wounds as trophies and grimaces,
daydreaming of when the canvass will turn white again and he can paint his masterpiece over and over again
what he doesn't see is the roots in your broken pelvis
you are an oak darling with no room to grow
any whining and your kid doesn't eat for a night
you are doll with skin tanned to a crisp and silicone planted in your chest like fake flowers planted in real soil
he tells you to hold your head up and do what he says
don't make noise
because your son is sleeping two feet of drywall away
that doesn't stop him and nor can you
you've become numb to the feeling of hands all over you
your eyes roll back into your head
not out of pleasure, certainly this is not about you
they roll because they are so used to see beads of sweat mixed with fake tan
his gold chained dog tag hangs in the space between your bodies

he's wearing his cologne
that awful brand you never liked because he smelled like papyrus
he smelled pure and good

but even the strongest perfumes can't outweigh the smell of blood that is caked under his fingernails because he was too tired to shower
but not tired enough to beat you into the corner of the living room
your son is still sleeping in the room next to you
you see the ***** syringes lying on the bathroom floor
and the pills on the dresser
you see his muscles get larger
and your heart smaller
he'll make you feel special, though
because not every girl gets a broken nose for Easter

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?