i’m not bitter, no
and i know, i know, i know
it’s nothing special
you paint the same canvas over and over again
you don’t bother to change your palette
you don’t bother to switch your paints
and the strokes seem gentle,
only the subject knows how harshly you pressed on them
and only you know how you’ve stained my skin
it hurts, surely
but i’d rub myself raw all over again,
if it meant i’d rid myself of you
no color, no fever, no sin