you insisted every masterpiece had a signituture as you relentlesely carved your name into my skin with blood running down your knuckles. "you're mine" may be music to the ears of a lover but there was nothing romantic about how prisoner you held me to you.
our love really had been captivating, dear. you said i had too much beauty to be alone as if my pretty face was an invatation for every man to be mine but i had always wished to be alone rather than in the company of toxicity.
i wish i could tell you i never loved you, but that is a lie that i could only wish were the truth- loving you wrongly was only showing me the right way out- most nights that had been the door of your aparment closing behind me.
tell me love, tell me why everytime i left was the only time in which i truly ever felt your presense as if i had been the face of a thousand paintings in your private museum? i am no art gallery, no poet, no "fire cracker underneath that shell." i am bold and stubborn in all things that make me lovely, but i was never yours.