contemporary nude

when i paint myself for you, i am captured

     in a space between perspectives.

here is the Sitter, shapeshifter, composite

of warm light and stillness. she flattens into

flattering lines and she does not smile.

the Artist frames her, knows the nuances

of a raised breast, patterns of flesh, positions

her against the backdrop; she’s here to do a job.

and there you are. the Spectator. lord of our threesome,

reclined in your distant throne. proud watcher of this

sordid display.

for you, i am a contortionist.

unlike a mirror, my body is constructed – a new thing.

a fractured transcript of this sultry night, scattered

across three sets of eyes.

             i like building rooms where you can hold yourself

             and marvel at your possessions.

             i like making myself a tunnel for you to thrust into.

i like you watching me make myself.

but what do I possess?

the power to undo you with my image?

or the cost of becoming an image? it’s like the dripping printed pictures

hung up in a dark room. they are trapped in their box.

they are the final display of a manual process.

autonomy is a fragile thing.

it exists only in the hue

that composes my pose,

the thrill of being caught in a spotlight,

                         studied like a specimen,

everything and nothing

at once.

a liberated woman owns her body.

i wear mine like a rented suit of armour.

i poise for battle in my glinting silver,

a frozen figure hung on your wall;

i’ll remain still as long as you watch me.

bared back

arched soul

fuckable.