She told me I had canvas hands and
paintbrush hair. She said it like
I could create something exquisite without tracing our outlines
against the windowframe.

She told me my lips were stamps and
my tongue was an eraser that made her forget all my mistakes.

She told me that my ears were cups that caught
any excess
and absorbed it, and mixed it in
with all the other dissolution.

She told me my eyelids were my palette, that
every shade of grey pooled against their edges

when I opened my eyes
when I opened my eyes

I reminded her that
I am not art —

I am a piece of work.

I said it like
it was dark, like we were paintings facing the walls
in separate rooms.

A/N: Three guesses which two I have actually been told. Also, points if you recognized the pun in "dissolution."

I'm rusty, I know. Not the best poem I've ever written, but I needed to shed a few layers of overwrought descriptors anyhow, and this was the easiest way to do it.

I feel lighter.

Kind of sort of dedicated to Violet Marx, who has stuck by me no matter how far I wander from the world of writing on my various hiatuses and self-finding quests; and who consequently still requests new pieces and reminds me that my butt could use with some kicking into a more productive gear.