I feel like a stranger in my own skin,
like a paper marked by hands that shouldn’t have been.
You painted on me with borrowed strokes,
colors I never asked for, lines I never spoke.

I tried to erase it all,
scrubbed until I bled.
But no matter how I try,
the red remains instead.

Why do I feel this shame,
when none of it was mine to claim?
Or is that just another lie—
one you left behind in my name?

Go on, throw another shade,
brush another lie across my frame.
Add one more mark on my arm—
pretend you never meant me harm.

Are you satisfied now?
Does silence taste sweet?
Is it peace you feel,
or just a hollow retreat?

The stains, they never fade,
they follow me—like ghosts that stayed.
I feel ***** in a way soap can’t cleanse,
not even the rain makes any sense.

I hope the paint on your hands never dries,
I hope guilt sleeps where your comfort lies.
And when you close your eyes,
may my tears echo in your skies.

My hands tremble still,
my voice quiet and thin.
You touched beauty and broke it—
I was never meant to let you in.

Run.
Let shame chase your steps.
Lie.
Wear your mask again.

Stain.
Things that were never yours to touch.
March.
Through lives you’ve broken too much.

Paint a little more.
Maybe that will hide the cracks.
Paint her, paint me—
but never give the colors back.

Your fingerprints are pressed on pages of my life,
you signed a name I never gave you the right.

Run.
Lie.
Scream.
Hide.

Paint.
Stain.
Break.
Divide.

Yo­u stole my innocence like ink on stolen lines.
Does your guilt whisper at night,
the way your memory haunts mine?

Blessed hands that held the brush so fine,
Spoke of stories yet untold in line.
Fingers that danced with vibrant hue,
Whispered secrets, as the canvas grew.

With every stroke, a tale unfolded,
Of passion, fire, and emotions bold.
The hands that painted, spoke of love,
As colors merged, sent from above.

In gentle touch, they shared a sigh,
As petals bloomed, and sunsets lit the sky.
With firm grasp, they told of might,
As mountains rose, and night descended bright.

The artist's hands, a language true,
Spoke of dreams, and all they'd do.
If you let them, they'd tell their tale,
Of beauty born, and emotions unveiled.

Their whispers echoed, as the art took shape,
A symphony of color, a heartfelt escape.
The hands that painted, spoke of soul,
A language universal, making us whole.

He was thinking of her
when he was inside me.
I saw it—
in the way his eyes glazed,
lit with pleasure
that didn’t belong to me.

There was warmth
in his body,
but coldness
in the truth:
it was me he was *******—
But all his fires burned for her.

I was just
the third body.
a fleeting satisfaction,
he couldn’t bring himself to want.

We’ve built our little world,
With sunsets and dreams,
Through ups and downs,
We’re stronger than we seem.
So let’s paint tomorrow,
With colors, bold and bright,
Chasing every moment,
Like the stars in the night.

The brittle oak legs hold up my taut canvas
They have endured years of feelings without buckling
And here they stand, facing me, asking me
When will you stop?

The splintered paintbrush drips colour on the soil beneath me Unwavering in the palm of my hand, it stays steady, solid
Yet it groans under the pressure of my fingers
Crying out for mercy with every stroke.

The canvas calls, beckoning my delivery of mind and heart
It whispers calm claims of serenity and peaceful hours
Whilst these are compelling words
There's only one use it can give to me.

The paint dries in the southern sun, untouchable but delicate
A portrait so realistic, only her stillness betrayed her
She gazes at me with lapis coloured eyes that don't move
If only I could recall who she was.

The memory of her explodes in my mind like a carpet bomb
But it's stripped away just as soon, ripped from my fingers
A crystalline tear cascades as I pummel the bare sod with fury
But until I remember again,

The brittle oak legs shake violently under my taut canvas.
The bent paintbrush leaks paint onto the soil beneath me.
The canvas whispers, beckoning my delivery of tears and anger.
The paint drips in the moonlight, distorted and warped.

The shape of your love’s image
Makes one imagine,

The many brushstrokes –

Painting out such a masterpiece
like you, Love.

we started with just clay when we met
as time went on we would not forget

we went to shaping and molding
something we both would be holding

we took a break to let it dry
time went on, our love did not die

we put our sculpture into the heat
planning to make something more concrete

we add splashes of our memories and strokes of paint
it's coming together to be charmingly quaint

we once more go on to seal it in fire
our creation of love that we admire

Drip
Drip.
No water needed.
You cry in colour now.
Grief mixed with pigment—your palette was pain.

taste as above the mind
interlong, stretch of water sold
absinthe's disdain for salt
familiar running legs brushing cruel

Color the sky with cerulean blue.
Know in your heart it will be true.
Paint the clouds titanium white.
Use indigo to pigment the night.
Oh, painter, your palette is as sharp as your knife.
May it guide you towards vibrancy all of your life.