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Painter

After you've been slashed to pieces,
The blood on the wall begins to dry,
Gluing your mouth shut,
But not your eyes.
It's the heart that keeps you alive --
Torn to shreds, but still beating nonetheless.
They forget.
You are but a painting.
A painting with eyes of constant observation
And a hidden, destroyed heart,
Steadily bleeding with every passing moment.
A painting.
A painting comprised of your own flesh and bones,
Your own mind and heart,
Your own soul.
Eternally trapped in the horrific scene
Created by its painter,
Rendered helpless, but not thoughtless.
Not emotionless.
Not numb.
Invisible to the painter,
Evicted from his mind.
The eyes shall ever follow.
The heart shall forever bleed.
All for him.
You cannot utter a word.
He will never know.
He has forgotten.