My Sweetheart Paints

My Sweetheart, the Artist She's always been the violent type. A painter of pain, she constantly covers my kiss-prepped canvas, expressing her love with vivid hues of blues and blacks, intimate greens, wrathful reds, and purples left by lusty lips. I nicknamed her my Monet of Misery, the prodigy of pleasurable agony. One must admire her stunning strokes: claw marks patterned down my back - an exhibition I inspired - are masterpieces worn with pride, the pink, six-stitch blemish hiding snakelike within my right eyebrow, brushed on with her crafty elbow in a tickle war one night. The heart-shaped, singed spot of skin on my abdomen - artistic aftermath of candle wax sketches. But just for once I wouldn't mind her being a bit more Bob Ross: gently stroking, dabbing the canvas, creating "happy little clouds".