There were no tears on my pillow,
for all you left were purple paintings,
tinged with the darkest sky,
on the legs you said you loved,
that stayed covered all summer long,
housing your latest exhibit.
My heart was the least of my worries,
but, oh, how she worried,
that the rest of me wouldn’t survive.
You’re not my past,
or so I pretend,
I wallpaper my woes,
now I’ve escaped being your canvas.
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Your body, and the hopefully happy adventures you can have
I am the worst, but…