I thought that you would paint me beautiful
As I sat upon the stool motionless,
positioned in your line of sight.
I noticed that your eyes would wonder the room as you worked,
Hopeful that you were simply taking in the environment,
And it's reaction to my presence within it.
The soreness that the long stagnancy brought to my bones
Seemed a fair trade
for the chance to see my tangible value before me,
Finally giving rest to the constant wondering of what that value was.
But when you finished you left,
leaving your work behind you,
A peculiar act
for an artist who ought to be invested in their creation.
My body cracked as I stood up from the stool,
Sounding an audible record of the great length of time I'd sat.
I took my first look at the identity I'd invested all of my hope inside,
And was instantly devastated.
It looked nothing like me.
And what in that moment
seemed like my greatest vain attempt,
Became my most powerful revelation;
I must create myself.