you always loved to paint. you always loved the way you could turn things into something beautiful, into something with a story and emotion and meaning. you used to tell me that ever since that first day we'd met at the art gallery, your perspective on art had completely changed, and everything you did was meant to be beautiful, even if it was flawed.

some nights, when we had nothing to do, you'd take out your palette and brushes and dozens of shades of paint. i'd lay in bed, stripped of my clothes, and you'd use my skin as your canvas and paint whatever your mind was set on for that day. some days you'd paint constellations and galaxies on my back, and other days you'd paint fire and smoke and ashes. when you were done, you'd take a picture of your art so that i could see; now our walls are completely plastered with photographs of my skin covered in your artwork.

i remember i'd asked you one day why you chose to paint me rather than on a simple, plain canvas. you had shaken your head with a little laugh, and said you did it because you wanted to make me beautiful — i guess i wasn't beautiful enough for you as just myself. you always did feel the need to make your changes and finishing touches on me.

that always killed me inside. it always destroyed me that you couldn't see me as i was; you saw me as what you wanted me to be. i was simply a project to you, my love. i was simply a piece of art with thousands of flaws and infinite amount of brush strokes meant to be beautiful in your eyes. my bare skin was not enough — you had to add on to make me perfect.

darling, did you know? my first impression of you was that you were imperfect, yet you were just as encaptivating a piece of artwork as any other; i only wish that you'd seen me the same way. you were always obsessed with fixing my flaws, but babe ... i was always unconditionally in love with yours.