We were seventeen and I carved
your silhouette like Michaelangelo
carved David -- but instead of leaving
your statue in a museum, I nailed
it to my mind.
This way, the guards wouldn't
run toward me every time I tried
to touch you.
Three years have gone by and the summer
has ended, but I haven't found the strength
to dismantle your statue.
When I walk through the hallways of
my mind it's always the first thing I see,
morning or midday or night.
Sometimes I'm surprised to see your marble
eyes staring back at me, and for a moment
I'm amazed that I once had the imagination
and artistic ability to build
you from nothing.
You are the statue of David.
I am ready to take a hammer and
tear you down, to let dynamite explode
next to you. But something stops
me every time.
Because how can I destroy such
a masterpiece? A work of art that I've
put months and years into?
So you remain an exhibit,
glorious. So you remain a distraction.
Because every time I walk by you, no
matter where I'm headed or how much
of a rush I am in to get there, I'm
compelled to stop and stare.
You are the statue of David.
And I am a seventeen-year-old girl
who was once kicked out of the museum
for getting too close.