i’m as bad as the men
who make women their muses
my eyes finds a victim
relentless and vain, my heart chooses
unsuspecting ones
they could be perfect already
but i’ll never know that
i’m an artist
painting over flaws
on cracking and chipped wooden walls
or on dated wallpaper blossoming with flowers yet yellowing
i apply a mask of fresh paint
a mask to hide the face
of a man i did not take the time to know
because i never spoke
or greeted him
and i won’t take the time
to bear what lies beneath
my own fabrication