She was so devoid of colour She had no idea what it meant Her contours lay contradicted To her prim and proper polished demeanour
He fought to be the paintbrush That defined her rigid flaws His signature strokes like a lover's touch That she was never ready for
But her canvas saddened day by day From his scarring bristle brush Her curves of shame dropped tears of bitter ink As it covered the marks he left on display
— Nanda Regine
From "Inside Her Roses"
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