Art and Love

Together we stand, alone, Holding each other tightly, As if the breeze were a storm. Shrink-wrapped and packaged as love. Your hair covers the bruises You splattered upon my body, In the name of art and adoration. A canvas and an artist. Everything we do is a self-portrait. The angle of each pigment of skin, Purpling under your very glare, It’s you. Your body changing mine. We are merely making love. Sex. Art. Pain. There’s no difference. And people fix their eyes upon me, As they would do upon a painting. I’m a walking photograph. A perfect portrait of a battered wife. These scratches are love in solid. An emotion etched upon my skin. All the greatest artists suffered. Now it’s payback. Make me hurt… Instead of feeling the inspiration, make it feel you. I am whatever you mould me into. You, my dear sir, are in control. You, my dear sir, are the artiste.