::08:13:08::

::: the artist :::

slippery smells of charcoal strokes
smoky hues over flawed curves, unsteady lines
I sit, shadowed by candlelight and moon
a fractured canvas full of uneven threads and tattered fibers
you smudge fingerprint trails in torrents from the well of my breasts
collectin in rippled pools at the arches of my feet
traces in pencil along my threaded spine etched boldly like readied lies told in haste when questions of why or when are asked
languidly, I'd anticipate those sessions under the artist's eye, every wound inherited or self-inflicted, became exquisite
a mark of beauty, the make up of me
loose, half-finished sheets strewn in piles
discarded from just one mistake
meticulous in his renditions of who he saw
but rarely who I was
I must've started to believe after a while began lookin at the portraits
exaggerated and unrecognizable
another artist's subject in oils
when i'd been immortalized in stone
skilled, knowledgeble hands formed me in bronze before I knew what contours I held
tiny stone crevices grew until canvas became more forgivin of me, my past, my mess
as muse, inspirin a gallery of coveteous fantasies
hung askew in back hallways of hollowed dreams and bated breaths
I smelled the comin rains watched paints bleed from the scrolls in hurried floods
leavin empty parchment as the bronzes stood unaffected

Written by: ~ Olympia