Maybe it was a hurricane                                               I became a mess of dark colors

Maybe it was a wrong turn                                           All blotchy and dirty

Maybe it was you                                                                I couldn’t even begin to chip away at the paint

I miss never being alone                                                 And when it the hues stopped being

Even if I was lonely                                                            shades of sunshine

Being around you                                                               and it became nothing more than a stain

Hurt me like a futile tattoo                                           I called by skin,

But what came of it was pretty                                  I shriveled up and couldn’t move

                                                                                                       I couldn’t protest

Something I’d later regret                                             I let you change me

But in the moment

The needles puncturing my skin                                Maybe it was my fault

Painted a picture                                                                 In the first place

Of everything I’ve ever wanted to be                     I was too weak to stop you

With each twirl of a paintbrush                                 I couldn’t enjoy the colors I painted

I felt less at peace                                                               myself

I felt less me                                                                           I couldn’t appreciate the love I had

The colors morphed                                                          given myself

From dainty and pretty                                                   I couldn’t see the real me

To something morbid and unpromising                She was too busy sitting on a shelf

You covered me in colors                                               Maybe that’s the price

At first, pretty pinks and baby blues                        An artist pays for artwork

But you kept painting                                                       That never wanted to be made

I thought your hand would’ve gotten tired

But it never did