I never asked you to be a knight in shining armor
and I never loved you as my fool in tinfoil. I offered up
my soul to you and showed you where to find the key
to my library gallery - the home of every word I've ever written,
all the sketches I've abandoned, all the discarded rags
used for blotting and clotting. I let you in as a part of
the audience whenever I stood to steady the easel
or reach for a new bottle of paint and a brush that hasn't
rusted just yet. And eventually I pulled you in closer to me
than I've ever let anyone else before. I turned you into
my canvass - my heart into pigment. That's when you learned
the tragedy of living in my shoes and how each time I meet
someone new that I actually like a new self portrait is created
highlighting the parts of me that found love in. Then when they leave -
because they always leave I become a masterpiece taken from
that brilliant golden frame in the Louvre simply to be forgotten
in a flooded basement somewhere in Louisiana. I kill off everything
from that image. I paint over it. I scratch at it. I claw away the layers.
I form a cocoon and awkwardly try again, but it never works.
The Mona Lisa within my lacking smile morphs a little more into
Frankenstein or maybe just the Devil with each flick of my wrist.
Get out while you can, Darling. My brilliantly dented flake.
No comments:
Post a Comment