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Your favorite medium was painting.
Your favorite paint, my blood
Because it came from the very heart beating for you.
I always knew you had thorns,
I just always assumed that they were for protecting me.
I never thought you’d hand me yourself in the middle of the night so I could bleed my pain away
And leave your marks all over me.
You told me it made me beautiful.
And god I wanted to be beautiful,
So I believed you.
I swallowed your words like medicine,
Believing they would take the pain away.
It just turned me ugly inside.
You told me
Empty promises always make the prettiest pictures.
I wonder if that was on your mind when you declared me your masterpiece.
You didn’t make me, you just destroyed me.
By the time you were done with me,
I had enough holes to fit your thorns perfectly.
And maybe that’s why you thought I was beautiful.


(I'm really nervous about this, but here goes nothing >.<)