I’ve been thumbing the pages of my mind and find you everywhere. When you broke in you sure made yourself at home.
Footprints litter every surface, smudges of you tell me you’ve found your way into my inner sanctuary — I hope you like the decor. It’s purposefully dark as I prefer a tactile experience, one where pain and bliss are known by the same name, borne of the same wound.
You realise you’re seeing God in there right? The creator of all that I am, that room is my womb, my birthplace (and aptly bloody). It’s there I dip my brush to paint my world and as I do so I feel your hand slip over mine, guiding my brushstrokes to broaden and include imagery my eyes have never seen.
I remember the last time you came. I didn’t even hear you approach until you were upon me. Startled but obedient I gave myself to you, allowing you to envelop my being.
I felt the heat of you as you pulled in close to my back, your lips so close to my ear I felt your breath graze my cheek. Your voice, falling on piqued skin like summer rain, welcomed and wet, offered guidance. Our singular arm painted arcs of colour across the canvas, the thickness of which reflect the pressure of your influence. I surrendered ownership of my limbs just as I did my heart, my mind, my world and afforded you full reign.
I tilted my head back to rest on your shoulder and your other arm formed a cocoon. And whilst I feigned rest, in truth I just wanted to catch a glimpse of the angel that sits on your lips, spilling delight every time you speak.
“There” you said with satisfaction and nodded toward the canvas. I stole my eyes away from your face and captured the canvas — realising that once again you’d caused me to create truth and beauty.
That painting now hangs in a gallery where others are ohhh’ing and ahh’ing at my skill. I can’t tell them that I was just the holder of the brush and that you, inspiration, you are the true artist.