content warning: this poem deals with sexual abuse

His hands make paintings of wine red and deep blue on my skin.
I am his canvas.

His hands are warm against my body, but his touch is cold and firm.
I am no longer my own.

His hands touch my body but my mind is so far gone and broken that his touch is all that is real.
I have become his.

I don’t have much to add here since I’d like to let this poem stand alone for the most part, but I am adding a note to say that it has been many years since I last saw his face and the details of it are fading. The memory of each of his features gets blurrier and blurrier as time goes by.

I am not his.

I am my own.