The Painter
I didn't realize that the way you painted your heart
would look so different than what I expected.
Colors of all kinds, a glistening, deep red, a smoky purple, a sizzling orange, pale yellow; all smudged across your heart for me to see.
It was beautifully tragic, looking back now, how your heart was stained by others.
Black ink where the sky blue once was, a burnt mark where the fresh green was, splatters all across the page of your mind.
I wish you could see that others held paintbrushes too, and that you would shelter your heart more carefully.
At first, you thought they were adding to your masterpiece.
You thought it looked better, with a mix of other strokes; a collaboration, you told me.
I should have erased those marks, the very first that were graphite grey.
But I didn't, and you didn't want me to anyways.
So now, here I am, with my own heart heavy, as I place your once beautiful painting of yourself behind a piece of glass; to protect you.