Her body is a canvas,

new and bright,

        a work of art, truly,

she painted flowers along her build, working carefully, diligently,

       a sign of her soul, pure, a white rose,

daily, she added love to her canvas,

                                     daily, she added another white rose to her shape.

The paint was cool on her skin, and it made her feel like she was beautiful,

 

she was.

Until one day, someone witness her portrait.

They offered to paint with her, but she rightfully declined.

    Outraged by the rejection,

they pressured harder that he wanted to help design her, make her pretty,

    that he was going to paint with her.

Again, she rightfully declined.

Aggrieved once more by the turn down, he reached for a bucket of

            black paint,

and poured it over her art.

    Over her body.

“You should have let me paint with you. it could have

        been

            something

                    beautiful.”

She was in shock.

        “Now     look     at     you.”

 

 

For

    days,

weeks, months, she let the black paint dry over her landscape.

    She tried to fix it, paint over it, but the pale colours only blended with her now charcoal colored skin.

      

              She felt broken.
 

 

Her body-based bouquet of white roses ruined.

                She was no longer pure.

Over time, years worth, the murky stain was dry

 

 

             And the girl could paint again,

 

                                 but she could never quite

 

                    get the same authentic glow the flowers once had,

 

 

 

and her body

                   was left

       

       

a grey rose.