Galatea

She had learned to hate what they professed was her beauty.

Because all she is was an empty vessel that had held a lifeless soul still into the ground that never ceased to crumble at every step she take. She had long lost her form to Pygmalion's hands. She was the imperfect Galatea, the failed masterpiece. Her battle scars were sculpted by the tip of his fingers and he had always told her, that each cut is born out of love. That the very breathe her lungs consume were a debt to be paid. That no one will ever accept her but him because after all, he had prayed so hard to the Gods for her to be alive.

The world had claimed her and she willingly sold her body even before she knew that it was hers. Never even having the chance to find her worth on the wonderlands she hide deep and deep within. Never even having the time to know who she is inside the parallel universes of her heart. Because all they cared about was the parts of her that fits on their mouth, the pieces they were able to swallow so that they can consume her little by little until all that's left for her to keep were the crumbs of herself that she secretly loathed.

They said her body was an art but, why does it have to be a canvas of pain?