Do not patronize me.
I am not looking for gazes full of wonder.
Or questions that do not rhyme.
Who is the artist?
The canvas is stretched to tearing.
My taut body holding on to the frame that encases me.
Maybe my colors are just not right.
The blues a little too bright.
The yellows a little too dull.
I am trapped in my own downfall.
I am looking at you from across the room, your eyes darting everywhere except here.
You are tinted with regret and encapsulated in your sadness.
And I have heard so many artists say that they need it for their art.
But what's the glory of art with so much heartbreak?
Your tears spilling and mixing into a palette of grey.
I will draw you to me just to be mistaken as divine.
Your hands will ignore the calls for caution telling you not to touch me.
That I will just ruin you is just another way of saying I will eventually love you.
Chaos is just another word, unrequited is just ten letters, but risk is all too close.
You will try to paint me another smile, to cover up for past mistakes.
And I will flake, revealing the ugly layers underneath.
This masterpiece was just another study.
Another shamble in the pile.