Patterns.

Bruises black, a spider-web-like
Mottled pattern traced upon her skin
By loving hands as she’s held tight.
And it’s clear to her that love is just
A game: her, a pawn in his game of chess -
Not the Queen she should be,
But who’s to know any different
When one is young and naive?
He’s painted a beautiful
Van Gogh-like dream in the meantime:
Her body, his canvas,
Yet a door’s her paintbrush to you and I.
But surely his paintings to her
Are just a present, a gift -
His unique token of love.
After all, she believes he loves her,
And love’s all that matters between two -
Right?