This is my heart, weathered and worn. Ripped open by a family who questions why I was born. Notice the colors, they honor me, so vibrant and bright. God's own painting of me of power and might. Just look at the beauty created from your abuse. Visible to the awake, not the obtuse. I wear my bruises, my scars, his blood, all with pride. For I now know the truth. I have seen the other side. Wear your colors. Wear them with pride. WE ARE ALL beautifully painted with nothing to hide.
If you read this religiously, it seems to say that we take our lumps and wear them as badges and emblems of our struggle, appreciative of God in His wisdom for putting us on the path to Him, difficult as it may be.
If you read this as a human, it seems to read as a victim of abuse trying desperately to find a way to understand and justify the horror of an existence that is cruel and painful put upon the narrator by an evil so great it's driven him/her beyond reason into denial and even psychosis.