You were an artist, your tongue the brush, my flesh the canvas, the colors of your paints changed over the course of time, from a bright red to blue, to purple, eventually fading to yellow and disappearing.

Your art was done with great patience, carefully planning out your work on my skin, you took pride in your paintings but I was the one who had to walk around with them under my clothes.

You said my parents put Van Gogh's starry night and Claude Monet's water lilies to shame, you said their masterpiece was me, but like all great artists you have more than one painting you work on at a time so it made sense you left me only to come back with her paint on your brush.

your masterpiece is tattered and torn, rebelled against her artist she worked on herself, she painted herself with the brightest colors and the happiest designs. She is not yours to work on and prod at, she is perfect, hanging up in the grandest art museum, she is priceless, your signature doesn't mark her, she marks herself.