i am a canvas,
i was born so pure,
my skin untouched by
society.
but the point of a canvas
is to not remain blank,
so as i grew up,
the people in my life
lifted
a paint brush
and
stroked it
against my pale,
smooth,
porcelain skin.
the first color
i can remember
being covered in is
red,
my cousin,
covered my
young,
five-year old skin
in red.
he painted me,
aggressively,
in places that
you shouldn’t touch on
a five-year old girl.
and that was the first time,
i wasn’t the pure,
pearly white canvas
anymore,
but i was red with
anger,
i was red with
evil.
and as i grew up some more,
colors of all sorts colored
my skin
to tell the story of my life.
yellow;
happiness,
blue;
sadness,
green;
envy.
but all of those colors,
could never cover the
old,
eleven-year old
red paint,
he left.