I was a blank canvas on an easel,
I watched you mix colors on your pallet:
Jacket over my skin, feet in black pumps,
Ears in long, dangling hoops.
Sparkling eyes so I could watch you
dip your brush into the paints
and trace the outline of my lips.
You excite me when you stand and stare,
like you want me to drive you wild,
but you return determined
with a paintbrush twirled in your fingers.
You slim my hips, lengthen my hair,
add color to my cheeks, weight to my chest.
My skirt hiked up to show off my thighs,
but I cannot argue. You wouldn't hear.
When the sun sets you lay down your paints,
retreat to your single bedroom
beside the kitchen that holds one plate,
one fork, one glass to drink from.
When the sun rises I am shred to pieces,
another embarrassment
watching from the wastebasket
as you mix colors and lift your brush.