It was when I was colorless and filled with empty hues that you found my lifeless self. The canvas that was sought after— only to stain with abstract lines resembling pain and misery— resides within me. Sweaty palms, heaving chests and hollowed hearts were the things I used to see from the people that held me close.
And there was you.. with your sweaty palms and heaving chest and hollowed heart. You came to me and broke the frame I have covered myself with to hide myself from people who have no intentions of keeping me— whose only desire is to tinge me with throes to dispose of the ache and save themselves.
But you stared at me like you are fascinated with the art that I am to exist. You gently stroked me with your loving brush of emotions and hidden feelings. You painted me the streak color of loneliness and the beauty of sadness that drives people to create masterpieces— and I was yours.
I was yours but you were never mine. The cacophonous sound of your brushes while kissing the surface of my being started to irk your ears. You splashed me the colors of blue and hate. By then, I knew I love you and I knew you don't. I was loathed for the unpleasant colors you spilled me with. And I hated myself more for loving you still as you painted me and filled me with unsightly parts of you.
