Tainted

I'm a white canvas and you're the black swirling ink inside the bottle.
Or is it the other way around?
You tell me.
That your hands crave my smooth skin.
I say you're a tornado of debris and confusion.
But I love the turmoil that's painted in my hair.
Because we're like fragmented pieces of porcelain.
We're chaotic and unreasonable.
You pour darkness around my borders and watch me
as I roll around on the ground.
The floor are our bedsheets, covered in our marks.
You kiss the hollow of my neck like finger painting with a child's hands.
I want not to see a speck of white.
Because white means nothing.
And nothing means not to exist.
I want to claim all the spaces in your heart.
So drip ink on to my canvases until there's only black.
Together, we'll create a dismantled beauty.