My body is a canvas,
you paint it black and blue.
As an artist you become unpredictable,
like Gough and Sexton too.

Painted with the dark ink of your soul,
I am a centre for your affections.
Decorated with your loss of self-control.
Brushed by self-reflection.

Trapped by your amendments,
this power holds me near.
An exhibit of poisoned endearment,
yet I am told not to fear.

This work of art nor, aesthetic depiction.
This is no game nor, healthy addiction.
These wounds cut deep and will leave a scar,
Your abstract ideas have gone too far.

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