Impressionist
I’m too caught up in
your dabs of red and purple
to step back and see
the flowers you claim
to have created.
“It shall be a Masterpiece
worthy of the Louvre,”
but I can’t do anything
except watch you repeatedly dip
the brush in the colors of your lies
and throw them at the canvas.
“I’m painting you, my love.”
I saw your pencil sketches,
but only began to fear
when you began to make them permanent,
dragging oils across my
indistinct image.
Now all I can see is
my reflection in the frame,
squinting, trying to make
sense of it all as
you’re phoning the gallery.
“A Masterpiece,
behold my creation,
the perfection of the form
in divine inspiration!
My colors, my themes,
in perfect combination.”
As though you need them
to define me.
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