it's okay to hope for a chance
it's okay to crave for a time
but never let yourself
beg for someone
it's okay to loose people
but never dare to loose yourself

if you were an atelier
i would take a visit everyday

treasure all that is inside of you

you are a wonderful piece
created by the masters

bloodshot tired eyes locked in a reflected viewing
of an alone tortured hollowed shell
paralyzed as I gaze into the ***** mirror
an unwelcome familiar presence
reminds me im never alone
as my shadow manifests into a looming depression
locking his grip on his ivory skinned art
the reflected viewing was his incomplete masterpiece
that took years of work

look!
look how beautiful I've made you!
he gleams
as cold darkened hands hold the sides of my face
his thumbs point towards glazed over tear filled eyes
outlining running mascara down sullen cheeks

slowly moving hands down uncombed brown hair
he yells
you need a splash of color my dear!
interlocking his fingers too tightly
as he reaches a frail neck
my face turns a crimson red as breathing is no longer an option
slowly adding in a navy blue as the struggle for life spreads convulsions through a weakened body
he only lets go to say
I cannot destroy what I've created!

it didn't haunt me just in the reflection
that sentence ran through my mind with the same shrill voice
as I stared down the neck of another empty bottle
the taste and smell of a bourbon
washed down with scotch was intoxicating
as it drowned his negative passive aggressive screaming
another bottle made me feel fluid
bringing out a smile that has been long faded
a laugh that was suppressed to feel anything but the pain he brought
the confidence to portray a happier version of the dying light I was
to portray the me I was before depression claimed me as his

shivering and chills
snap me back to the reflected present
as his hands run down my uncovered arms
where he carelessly streaked black and blue
finger painted marks
each bruise that illuminated too bright in a dimly lit room
he traced them ever so gently
writing a cursive love poem
as he moved down to my wrists that were consistently covered
he grazes over red protruding straight lines
where fingernails like razor blades
danced from one end to the other
signifying that 7 lines measured the years he spent working on the piece he called Shelby

across what was left of my ivory skin
he carelessly wrote his name
in ink mixed with blackness as dark as him
and specks of my own blood
interlocking our souls as one
and to declare me as his and non others
for an artist never lets another touch his incomplete masterpiece