I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart,
But your blade it might be too sharp.
Here, let me sit before you,
My muse, you pretentious little beast;
Stay still, this will hurt a little.
Do you feel it, my love,
My fingers grazing down your cheek,
Or is the foundation too thick?
A resounding slap in the silence,
You eyes wide, astonished, horrified.
Hush my love, I’m working.
I see the flush on your cheek,
the cracks in the alabaster mask you wear
And I treat the other cheek the same.
Your head, pretty curls flying in the wind,
Not a complaint, still, because
Your heart is breaking.
I cup your cheek,
feel the mask crumble like dust,
And I stare into eyes burning with hate.
When our lips touch, though
You’re no longer cold,
My sculpted model of perfect stone.
I feel the blood pulsing under your skin,
The burn in your gaze
And you’re no longer my muse.
We are lovers, now you and I
Equal in the ache that flood our minds.
When we had first met, you were a cold paper, unwritten pages begging for ink. Or so I thought.
I discovered slowly, you had coated yourself inkproof, and no matter what I wrote, it slipped right off you.
I wondered if you felt, the touch of my hand, the fire of my gaze, and your flint-like eyes gave away nothing. Bit by bit, I corroded your soul, when the muse wants her poetess, she wants herself to be whole.
When you tired of being the picture, begged to be the brush, I tried again, out of love. No matter what I did, how many dances we learnt, your skin remained untouched, your eyes cold to touch.
So I made you sit before me, and I left bruises on your skin, angering you till you broke out of your shell. I am ashamed of what I did, I am. It was violence, and even the ones done with permission do harm.
I feel nauseous, my hands trembling at how I had ripped my own canvas to shreds, while you revelled in your new found skin.
I am broken, an artist craving disapproval and possession, the one who secretly harbours dreams to bring her muse to life, so that she burns her canvases and hates me to the bone.
Here I sit, still and made of stone, waiting for the slaps that will take me home.