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.

This poem is about: 
Guide that inspired this poem: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741