It has been a year since you placed your hands in the crevices of my body uninvited.

The power you had over me is not greater than the happiness I feel now, knowing your hands are off of me and down your pants instead.

Clutching onto your weapon of destruction, you hope one day someone other than yourself can hold onto your paintbrush.

Isn't white supposed to be pure?

You set up your canvas to be strong enough to put up with you and your mistakes but you go and destroy it with a touch of your brush, dipped in colors of ignorance and disrespect.

It has been a year since my smile turned real.

Nothing in this world can change the way you are, no matter how much you think you are making this world better by making art on a canvas. I know you will always find someone new to ruin.

You are an artist of misery. My body is your masterpiece.

My face should be hung in galleries because the cost of myself with a genuine smile plastered on my face knowing you are not in my life anymore, is priceless.

Thanks for making me beautiful.