the bruises stained her skin like painted flowers. they fell gracefully across her diminished frame, marking a fragile neck, jaunting arms, a rattling torso struggling to draw breath, and brittle legs. they were harsh with soft edges, bleeding purples and blues. with a cold stare and sunken eyes, the hollows in her cheeks added to the malaise of her frame. she glanced bitterly at her reflection. the abrasions did not concern her, they never did. she was accustomed to her role as a medium for an artist to display their artwork as she was to breathing, which she realized, was started to shallow itself. her role as a canvas involved being obedient, quiet, willing. artists with hate in their heart loved to paint panaceas of brutal blues onto her frame. looking down at her chest, she saw two large flowers plastered across three of her ribs, a pretty shade of purple and blue. she prodded them gingerly and hissed in pain as the flowers twitched and bloomed. dropping her faded old t shirt, she rubbed her eyes, stole one last glance at her beleaguered reflection before walking away.
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