Stripped of my worth.
Defenceless against his acid rain.
A blank canvas, I was his work of art on which
to pour scorn and disdain.
Press and hold.
A bruise is made.
Upon my skin, its colour fades.
From indigo to yellow, splashes of pain finally turn
neutral.
Yet within my mind, I still see red.
I scrub the walls with turpentine tears.
The passing years may have lessened the crimson
memories he left behind, but the scars are still painful to touch.
I withdraw the canvas from its frame before setting it ablaze.
To burn as an effigy leaves me without a name.
Upon these ashes, I need not reflect.
I am a blank canvas again.
This is not how my story ends.
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