Poem – My Sweetheart The Artist

Painter of pain, she covers 

my kiss-prepped canvas, 

expressing love 

in sensual hues of blue and black, 

intimate greens, 

wrathful reds, and purples 

left by lust-driven lips. 
She’s my ‘Monet of Misery’, 

prodigy of pleasurable agony.

Performance artist behind closed curtains, 

she turns my body into her oeuvre; 

no audience to behold

each stunning stroke.

Claw mark collages adorn my back.

A pink, six-stitch blemish 

hides snakelike in my left eybrow-

brushed on one night with a gifted left elbow 

in a passionate frenzy of her craft.

The heart-shaped, 

singed spot of skin on my abdomen

an artistic aftermath of candle wax sketches. 
Once in a while 

I wouldn’t mind her being 

a little more like Bob Ross: 

gently stroking, dabbing the canvas, 

creating ‘happy little clouds’. 

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