I feel like a stranger in my own skin,
like a paper marked by hands that shouldn’t have been.
You painted on me with borrowed strokes,
colors I never asked for, lines I never spoke.
I tried to erase it all,
scrubbed until I bled.
But no matter how I try,
the red remains instead.
Why do I feel this shame,
when none of it was mine to claim?
Or is that just another lie—
one you left behind in my name?
Go on, throw another shade,
brush another lie across my frame.
Add one more mark on my arm—
pretend you never meant me harm.
Are you satisfied now?
Does silence taste sweet?
Is it peace you feel,
or just a hollow retreat?
The stains, they never fade,
they follow me—like ghosts that stayed.
I feel ***** in a way soap can’t cleanse,
not even the rain makes any sense.
I hope the paint on your hands never dries,
I hope guilt sleeps where your comfort lies.
And when you close your eyes,
may my tears echo in your skies.
My hands tremble still,
my voice quiet and thin.
You touched beauty and broke it—
I was never meant to let you in.
Run.
Let shame chase your steps.
Lie.
Wear your mask again.
Stain.
Things that were never yours to touch.
March.
Through lives you’ve broken too much.
Paint a little more.
Maybe that will hide the cracks.
Paint her, paint me—
but never give the colors back.
Your fingerprints are pressed on pages of my life,
you signed a name I never gave you the right.
Run.
Lie.
Scream.
Hide.
Paint.
Stain.
Break.
Divide.
You stole my innocence like ink on stolen lines.
Does your guilt whisper at night,
the way your memory haunts mine?
