If I were an artist
I would take up a brush,
coarse bristled so you'd feel it
and make a long stroke,
Black,
across your lips
so that when you would smile,
I would see the danger.

I would paint your palms red,
Sardius,
my own Stigmata
to remind me that with you
It Was Painful.

Your lovely green eyes
I'd smear over in white
so that they couldn't lie
and I wouldn't fall again.

Then I'd string you up.
Hang you on my wall
as my debut work.
My masterpiece.

The critics would call me
up and coming
brilliant
and they'd swarm about you
expounding
about the symbolism
and the technique.

I'd smile graciously
and take photos with them
and answer their questions
politely.

All while you'd hang on my wall.
Silent
Choking
Tasting black paint
on your tongue.

 
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