- Erotic Poetry
- A Canvas
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There were times when I could have sworn I was the muse or art in question
I might trick myself into thinking that the hands grasping for my body were gentle, reaching out with the care and tenderness a sculptor might employ to mold clay.
I gave in to the illusion that letting them partake of my skin and the pleasures of my flesh was how I finally became beauty I'd so longed to be.
But it's hard to stay convinced when I find that my body is now a canvas scarred,
flesh flushed red with handprints, head aching from hair pulled by balled fists
with black mascara staining my cheeks and clothing ripped hungrily from my thighs,
I've been littered with that distinct angry violet from teeth sunk too deep, bent over and every which way until my bones shake
All the shades of their violent delights displayed like paint splattered carelessly, thoughtlessly upon my form with no regard for the colors I would have wanted
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