my face is your canvas
to paint your colors.

you may use them
to add to what you tell me,
is beauty.
thin lines around lips,
thick lines circle eyes.

you can help me heal the scars.
(or you can add them up, so you’ll know
how many are yours before you rewrite my mask)

you can,
with more than the flick of a wrist
bruise me beyond recognition
(blues and blacks
from a frightened palette).

then with refined, delicate grace,
slip a artistically rendered facade of paint
over the mass of unseen
under the skin

i am your doll,
your mannequin,

paint me sickly hues
for my throes of love for you.

no inspiration, really. not about anyone or anything. just bored. (:


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