Painter of pain, she covers
my kiss-prepped canvas,
in sensual hues of blue and black,
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.
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’.