I am no great poet,

or skilled novelist,

I am a lover.

Which I deem is both greater and worse.

I do not write

or squabble.

I write all of you down on paper

with my heart,

squeezed into my pen.

Your beauty overtakes my canvas

But I am no artist either.

You make the strokes,

as if I am your puppet

and I paint you down,

a billionaire's masterpiece.

You skin me alive,

until all my worries subside.

For all I am

Is what you do to me.

Tell me, what am I?