(SOLD) Pensive
$100.00 / Sold out
9 in x 12 in. Acrylic/ink on paper.
This was a painting inspired by my poem, Pensive. It is about the dangers of the men I love, much like the beauty in a venomous snake. Not to be met with hatred or resentment but to be admired. To be aware: The poem goes as follows. First, thank you to Shannon for your support!
"I never idolized him.
He was a statue in pictures. His beauty was captured in the past—posts like a collage of masks, grainy and pixelated. I stared at the photos he took: What is he thinking? How does he feel? Does he know who he is? Is there already a woman on his mind as long as the internet is her shelf life? Yes. Always yes.
He has a museum of lovers, precious and behind glass. While she is the pièce de résistance. Somehow, they will always have more merit than the space I occupy as a visitor who had to pay for entry. It is a fact I know I will live with the first time I shake their hand and look in their eyes. They are with me, but their focus rolls backward in time over and over.
I am never her.
They peel a new layer and defame their masterpiece. I always wondered what was underneath. Scandal and promiscuity crawl out like roaches. I know there is space in this man's heart; he will never give it to me. Instead, he will lay me down on the cold side of the bed and tremor with nightmares. He emptied his evil in me by now: I am still here. He resents me for that.
I love Hyde. I love how dismissive he is. I love how he will not promise me anything. Instead, he will leave me trinkets to keep me entertained. He knows I am onto him. I love how he can show me how horrendous he is. Yet, with me, he can be himself: A real piece of work.
He is Mr. Wonderful. The man who will never change, who will always choose him over me, aggravate me, excite me, the man that will teach me that even the most ill-intended man just wants to be rescued. We have that in common. Except: while in distress, I have never been a damsel in my whole life.
He is not one man. He is a collection. He is the man fifteen years older than me who will tell me “I miss you” with his wife beside him. He is the man who held my head while I slept, knowing he would never have me. He is the man who I asked if he loved me and admitted, “I do.” The only true lie. He said he feels the same way. He could never know my side, the connoisseur, while he is the artist.
He is an animal. We learned early: Never to bring them home. "