Third Prize winner, 2019 Makewana Poetry Competition |
He said he wanted to paint me, |
That I needed another shade or two. |
He said I was far too ugly, |
And needed to be decorated in something new. |
But his paint brushes were his fists |
Whose strokes were far too severe. |
The paint was his sharp tongued lips |
Sketching ideas that were too cruel to bear. |
His canvas was my body, |
That he loved to paint black and red. |
And when he found no more free space on my anatomy |
He found places to paint in my head |
He said he wanted to paint me, |
That I needed a different shade or two. |
So he painted me to misery |
Because paint can be scars and bruises too. |
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