you're an artist, truly you are.
you took my body and made it your canvas,
smoothed my wrinkles and unfolded my ends,
you painted and painted, stroke upon stroke
poured love and tender care into each flick of your wrist.
till one day, you stopped.
artists block, you called it.
no inspiration, my fault.
your smooth strokes turned to angry screams
crumpling and ripping each page of me,
stabbing my canvas, torn with headaches
so yes, you are an artist.
and now I know why I can no longer draw.