i can’t find comfort
in stretched canvas
the way i use to.
i see how you catch pigments
between a watering colour— i spill.
it’s the only way we know beauty,
yet we’re dying.
and i’ll say it again—
you staple to that door for image-sake
you hang on the walls for clarity.
clarity is felt in a brush of epidermis.
meanwhile, you grace me with a six-inch pole.
our pleasure fights through fear of patched forests.
i can’t find comfort.
accept that i’m brazen,
just as lost.
i can’t be stripped
any further or painted
any more perfect
when i am with you.