But I am a blank canvas,
and you are the painter,
so I do rely on you,
to make me a fainter;
I want to collapse against,
the brushes you smooth,
over my surface filled,
with the colors of this truth;
I want to taste the gold,
the colors your fiery eyes told,
over my hands that you have pinned,
the skin that for you has already sinned.
I want the ode of your brushes,
to coat my bleeding heart,
in feverish rose desires,
because I am your masterpiece, your art;
as I am a canvas, darling,
and I need you to paint me your starling,
for I have come to drown,
in the paints that you have used,
I have come to be ripped,
by the love which you abused.
And now I am no longer blank,
because you have given it to me;
all your dictionary of colors,
yet you are now of nothing more to see;
and you exist to be blank,
just as I used to be.