his masterpiece [kind of old]

He’s a painter. 
Typically anywhere but on my face. 
He is an artist…. my body, his canvas. He colors me… black, blue.
                                                                       Sometimes he surprises me by adding splashes of pink and red, to show my appreciation I close my eyes and wait for it to end. It’s love, it has to be. If he didn’t love me, he wouldn’t paint on me. He’s says its my fault, I’m his inspiration. I don’t see how I’m to blame for his impatience. He’s good at making excuses even better at making me feel fat, ugly, and useless. My mind is weak, but my body is weaker. It looks fine on the surface; I dare you to look deeper. His masterpiece complete.. The hatred in his eyes retreats. It’s only then that he repeats “I swear I’ll stop doing this to you”. Everything in me wants to believe him, but his actions always speak louder than his promises do...