Yellow Paint

He painted her portrait like Van Gogh,
Some Post Impressionist mess, 

He used shades of purple and blue, just like the bruises on her thighs,
And perhaps black to shade the hearts of those who turned blind eyes.

She was a bit a of a Surrealist painting too,
Bent and broken,
Arms, lips, and skin taken out of skew.

Layered like oil paints,
Thin and bleeding like watercolours,
And the shades of acrylic,
one fake smile layered over another.

With brush in hand he shaped her form,
Background and foreground, 
The delicate mosaic all up her arms.
White washed or cover coat,
To hide blemishes, of her beauty he would gloat,

But she was just a treasure not treasured,
She was to be his ardor,
but not to be adored,

Pretty. Placid. Along the wall was she to hang,
The world to view her beauty, but never see her pain.