The real me.
Sometime ago,
your brush strokes manipulated my blank canvas,
one to many times.
The flick of your tongue like a foolish flame
tinted my edges a crisp gold.
It still burned.
I might as well
bestow you a cup of darts
and patiently wait...
for you to splatter them across my bare chest.
Through my eyes,
you swirled and swung
the tip of your brush
like a dandelion in the breeze.
But really,
your sinister charm slaughtered my canvas.
Whipping words against my innocence.
Cruel, sharp-like-a-dagger fantasies.
You were my living nightmare.
And I tolerated it.
One to many times,
hoping you would transform into a better being.
But then I widened my eyes, and realized
that it’s different now,
no matter how many layers I peel back,
you won’t change.
But I will.
I will sponge and plaster and coat,
all the mistakes you have trailed behind.
I will snatch your brush and paint the paintings I want to see,
the real me.