We are a living canvas composed of paints in different colors that were smudged by various people. We used to paint ourselves the way we wanted it, until our brushes are no longer ours. Until every person takes it away without any permission.
Each of them have splattered colors we never knew existed right before our eyes until it completely covered our own. There's black when there should be yellow, there's blue when there should be red, there's brown when there should be green. Oh, how awful those colors we've seen.
Each hand that holds our brush kisses our canvas with a black paint, until it trickles down with so much pain. The so-called art they made have formed an abstract that whispers agonizing messages:
"I love you, but not the same as you do."
"I apologize for what I did, but only for a show."
"I like you, but now I don't."
"You should trust me, but I will lie to you."
"We're great friends, but I will stab a knife behind you."
"We're a family, but I will make you feel like you don't belong."
"I want you, but only when I need you."
"You are not alone, but all these people will make you feel like you are."
It doesn't end there-inside our canvas we slowly die, and no one noticed. They still keep on splashing colors that make us happy, but only for a short while. Because in the end, they all leave. They will leave as if smudging colors on other's canvas is a simple thing and nothing like a game to be played on.
The canvas we once created is now hidden away, to the point of no return. We wanted a new piece of ourself. We wanted a fresh start. We wanted to learn how to say "no" and hold our brush tightly so no one can take it away anymore.
But little did we know-our canvas may be covered with unwanted colors, but it can still be painted with another bright and radiant hues. We may be messy, but we can still be an art. We may be complicated, but someone will understand our silent pain. We may have lost our value, but it can be restored. We may be damaged, but we can still be fixed.
