In the mirror, I see art.

My dark hair curls, accentuates,
crafting my royal cheeks, smooth,
against my olive skin.

My figure, curved, full,
like the sands of time; slowly,
crafting my shape in splendor.

My eyes, a rich coffee brown,
earthquakes thrive; shatter,
resonate in my gaze.

Yet...the painting becomes forgotten,
the frame tilts with the pull of Earth,
worn hands fail to paint.

When I walk, they perceive me.
Am I as beautifully crafted as a Renoir? Or as scattered as a *******?

Each stare a different audience, another sketch, a frame lost in the viewer's eye.

But my thoughts are forever,
burdened only by another's dream,
ideas stirred, juxtaposed with my own;
an artist's piece at odds.

The colors smear, lines smudge, but yet my eyes always see the beauty. Do you?

They always hit me,
like frothy waves in the ocean,
growing in strength; a hot, salty blue,
enveloping me in its wake.

Like fine crystal, the clearest, most pure,
a divine glamour, cutting deep to the soul,
each speck: grey, green, brown, blue,
as if crafted by God's own hand.

It mesmerizes, shouts to me, calls;
they say nature's color is green,
but blue rings from the mountain tops, from waters below,
and it settles in their gaze.

Cool ivory, his fingers touch;
A masterful sound.

Melodies crushed, words hush,
Heavy bonds do the notes make,
Beneath the weight of tears.

Pure white, dim-light,
Notes escape from warm breath;
The show goes on.

Shaky hands, cold lips,
Jumbled words, politics,
Burning cheeks, wikileaks,
Silent stares, distant week.

Twisted stomach, achy sighs,
Neither are more the wise,
Silent thoughts, weak spots,
Each word twisted in a knot.

My comforts, an illusion;
a man crafted in the mind,
to soften the blow of reality.

His touch, warm and delicate,
fake and fleeting,
leaving my heart twisted sour.

An intimacy, imagined,
hands merged with the air,
a hot fever overwhelming.

I cannot break free,
from this manmade delusion,
as too much of me relies on him.

Sanity shatters under my breath,
without his sweet embrace,
a broken mind created man in an empty space.

Pull the trigger, take a hit,
poison drips from fingertips,
each pill shimmers upon the floor,
a deadly grip if taken more.

Casing lined in gold or silver,
with each hit, it takes a sliver;
a busted brain, a mangled heart,
they knew the risks from the start.

A curtailed cry, cut short goodbye,
two bullets settle in throat and thigh;
eyes rolled back in a glassy stare,
lips pulled apart, a forbidden pair.

Pull the trigger, take a hit,
blood runs red from fingertips,
men resting silent upon the floor,
the chamber clicks to silence more.