The Artist

When you stumbled into my life I was a new canvas with fresh paint.
Vibrant colors, blending into each other to make this picture of me.
You would walk in and out, lingering to admire it like it was the most beautiful thing you had seen in awhile.
During this time it only grew, the colors brightened and the canvas itself seemed to expand.
You stayed.
You set your canvas up right next to mine,  it was darker.
Inspired you brought out brighter colors, blended them with your black and greys.
Impressed.
As your canvas took shape showing a changed scenery you turned your brush to mine.
Fear.
I had been working so hard and the last time I let someone paint they used white, erasing the details that made me unique. 
Trust.
You used gold around the borders to  highlight my edges. 
Happiness. Content.
I could paint with you all day.
But now, some days, you would grow weary of painting.
Beginning to admire others unfinished work.
I was not finished.
You begin adding ash to my canvas. Small areas of color look muddy. 
You look happy.
You add gold to yours.
When I look at mine I start focusing on the darkness so prominent and pained.
Shame.
I decide to just focus on yours.  Sometimes you let me paint.
It's a masterpiece but in the right hand corner there's a black cloud and no matter how pigmented the color I can't cover it up.
Aching.
You came home with a deeper gold to make me smile,  went over my edges to refresh my memory. You put a sheet over our pictures exclaiming
"let's forget about this for awhile"
Kisses on cheeks, hands on bodies, intimacy.
Safe.
When you pulled the sheets away the colors looked brighter than before
because we hadn't seen them in so long.
You didn't want me to paint for you anymore. 
You had a plan, but you still needed my brush. 
Surrender.
You can have whatever you want.
Sacrifice.
Distracting myself I let you paint alone.
Sometimes all night in a cold bed I would wonder what it looked like.
Months pass.
You have grown irate.
The colors won't blend, the mixtures are separating.
You don't want help.
My voice is to demanding and my body is weighing you down.
I give you my palletes and brushes.
Waiting.
I look under your sheet, the colors are beautiful. You are smiling.
Joy.
I notice my sheet is no longer white, there are rips in the seams. It lays over my canvas.
Lifted. 
Colors are gone.
There is only an ash filled canvas with deep gold edges.