In a somber room,

Filled with moist air,

I stand there, in the middle,

With weak stilts,

And a golden light showering me.

 

If I shroud myself in tarp,

I can only momentarily shut out the glare,

Avoid its burns,

Until it makes its way into my blank eyes,

And through my rough, cotton skin.

 

Occasionally, I enjoy the light.

It gives me warmth.

It offers me sight.

But it forces me to see the artist,

And today, the artist saw me.

 

She walks towards me,

Over the creaky floorboards,

Unloads her brushes,

And, without my consent,

Begins to give me an identity,

Without remorse and without regrets.

 

Each stroke gives a different impression.

Some are callous and abiding.

Some are careful and delicate.

Some are quick and reckless.

 

The paint is smooth,

Yet sharp and potent,

Smothering me with its fumes,

Devouring me with its colors,

Changing and manipulating my appearance.

 

By the time the artist is finished,

She marvels at what she has created me to be.

I am put on display,

Titled, "The Untitled Identity,"​

Showered in golden lights,

Unable to move,

Unable to speak,

Unable to shroud myself,

And constantly reminded of the beauty,

Of the burdensome painting,

That bystanders consider to be me.

 

I must admit, however,

It is not all bad,

To be considered beautiful,

And, perhaps, I am my title

It is a shame that I will never know.

 

Maybe, to some artists,

I was beautiful.

But can they help but not paint over me, regardless?