You think that if you find the paints of the same colors – I graced and painted you with, you can tell her to paint you the same way I did, but more or less she’ll paint you differently , she’ll try but she’ll miss a few strokes and add some patterns of her own, she’ll use more water and less paint , faded colors would look good on you, but would you feel like art?

Sometimes I painted you with dark colors​, the corners of your soul only I thought I knew , but here I am trying to forget the only thing I knew so fluently – painting you.

I messed up every time I painted, the paint used to get in my hair , my skin , my mind and my heart , but I never stopped , I painted my best, turned up the music on your playlist and I just painted , painted you.

But now those paint stains are toxic for me and I smile knowing that they would’ve only destroyed my skin , my bones , my hair and my body , but here’s what I think it is , those stains were too pretty to be erased. 
Sometimes I threw paint on you without thinking ,while the older paint was still wet, because I was mad , the painting wasn’t turning out to be what I wanted , but those spots , they only turned into some reckless memories.
But all I really want to know is that are you happy with the way she paints or are you searching somewhere for the older strokes underneath the fresh paint , trying to caress the memories of my paint stained hands.
Here’s the thing, you thought that the same strokes , same brushes and the same paint would damage your canvas layer by layer ,  but little did you know – a masterpiece like you takes time.
And that is when I stopped painting and turned to poetry.


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