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: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

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