Mariah Fletcher
He once told me everything I painted looked like me in some way. He said that even when my paintings became faceless. He has seen all of me, every stitch and seam, every freckle no one names. I know he loves my faceless paintings because they are exactly what he sees me for, brave enough to admit it or not.
Sometimes, I wish I could go back to when my hair was shorter and love was just something I dreamed about before sleep. Back when hope was all I owned, even if I drug her around by the wrist.
Back when I was ill-informed of men who become quiet muses.
Every line I draw seems to hold his name.
Even when I am painting faceless portraits, the bodies I paint develop his fingerprints.
One day, my pencil will forget his name.
One day, my paintbrush will forget they whisper prayers of him, to be tucked forever in the space between the paint and canvas.
How nice it must be to become a secret muse. How nice it must be to become a muse, even if I am painting myself.