Metaphor.

My bones were a frame,

My skin stretched over it like

A canvas;

Blank.

I gave  you a brush

And with it the freedom

To turn me into whatever you so

Desired.

I began beatiful

Empty

Pure

But was soon polluted by

Images of pain and sorrow

That still reside on my body

As scars –

Little raised spots of skin that

Are hard to see but

Impossible to forget.

Your colors, once vividly splashed across my flesh

Are faded,

But still there in the form of

An everlasting bruise –

Pain that you forget  about until you touch it again:

And then come the memories of

Fists to walls and

Walls crumbling to floors

But the walls aren’t real –

They’re only a metaphor,

And that’s when I realized that love,

Our love,

Is nothing but a metaphor misinterpreted

Long before we read it.

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