Masterpiece

Aren't you proud of what you made me?

You painted me rosy pink,

and gold

and blue.

The blue of my eyes dripping down my cheeks;

you created those tears.

My lips are red, swollen,

painted outside the solemn

lines.

The blue gray of my eyes is off-colour,

as if you guessed

what they looked like 

(even though you should have known).

The golden strands of my hair

has abandoned all recklossness

(and life)

lying flat and straight against my face,

the way you liked it.

My faces conceals all turmoil,

revealing only impenetrable blankness.

Your masterpiece.

Your creation.
Your fault.