They took my work—

stretched it,

twisted it,

painted their own colors

over mine.

They called it collaboration,

called it fair,

while my voice

bled out at the edges.

They hung me on walls

I never chose,

showcased their version

of my story,

erased the parts

that didn’t fit their frame.

But here’s what they never saw:

my fingerprints

pressed into the wood,

my breath

woven into every thread.

They thought breaking the frame

would break me too.

They thought if they shattered the border,

the whole thing would fall apart.

But I was never just the canvas.

Never just the art.

I am the hands that built it,

the eyes that dreamed it,

the heart that kept it alive

long after they walked away.

They broke the frame—

but I stayed whole.

And now,

I build again—

stronger,

wilder,

mine.