Megan Martucci


The Artist

August 16, 2016

My father was an artist
Who painted the most beautiful pictures
He worked with dark colours because they stood out the most
I have fair skin
Mother put his work on display for everyone to see,
But my father is a humble man
He never wanted recognition
Sometimes he painted dead lilacs
Sometimes he painted roses that felt real
Often the thorns left marks
I know, because my mother had cuts everywhere
If people questioned her, she would just say that Dad had picked her flowers
Mother isn’t colourful anymore
He needed a new canvas
I had fair skin


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