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My body is his canvas.

He is an artist after all. Bruises are the colours that skin makes when the blood seeps past the broken vessels. Cuts the separation of flesh, allowing new hues to well up, painting his message on my body, marked there for anyone to see.

The sunset he paints across my skin never lasts; but must be constantly reapplied just as the day dies and dies again. It creeps slowly, moving through its spectrum in the same exquisite order; from angry red to blue that mourns into purple then black, like death, before swimming into green speckling yellow then resuming once more its peachy emptiness.

It is a marvel he must reconstruct over, for both of us to regard in silence.

What fire rises in him he must release. He enacts art upon the world, his dreams and desires, his faith and his feeling. He shares his vision and conviction in this way, striving as any artist will to make the world see as he does, to understand what he believes. The undying compulsion to peel back the pearly membrane that conceals the rot beneath. The grand joke.

But upon my body he unleashes a reflection of the darkness that underscores his work, obscured far below the malicious and remorseless joy that is his inspiration.

Upon my body he can release his hidden self, and be freed.

I receive it and absorb it quietly, gratefully. Of course I must, because without colour the canvas is empty. Without the stain of his emotion I am blank and can merely wait to be filled.

Beneath his hands, I become something else and am glad. From his hands can flow upon myher unresisting body all of his anger and his frustration, his pain and his cruelty. In this way I am made important and I know this; I proudly display herself as his masterpiece.

He chose me for this purpose and I revel in that knowledge. In my selection he has made me immortal, though the process of creation may one day destroy me.

He created me in his image and in giving her torment he makes me the more perfect a reflection. And mirrored, mine is vivid and alarming whilst his remains concealed and safe.

He strives to create beauty in his way, as any artist seeks to do. In his eyes his deeds are splendid and a gift to a world which resists, unwilling to see the beauty in its truth.

But he can make me love the pain he gives me for being chosen to portray it. I become truth and that is beautiful. In this way he transcends.
He is Creator.