The Artist

The Artist

The Artist

A Poem by Abigail Raley

I could make you a work of art

I could carve hieroglyphics into your back with my claws

I could coat your lips in oil paint

I could love you bare 

And freely

I could give you stories 



I am a Greek painting 

Cavemen brood about 

Feed me grapes 

And catch me in your teeth 

Pick me out like ripened apples 

Sickly sweet 

Adam please 

Bathe me in your essence 

Effervescence leaves

Those who do not warm their homes with women who burn as hot as amber leaves 

A torched Kamasutra sitting entitled on your nightstand 

Indignation in a kiss 

The chisel of my paint the moment your lips hit my cheek 

What color will I bleed next?

Let the colors underneath stream down the creases of your chest 

The songs that escape my lips between innocuous but broken breathing 

Innocence escapes a busted painting 

Broken frames 

Let me make new unfinished art across you with my lipstick 

Let me stamp you with every sharp inhale across your throat 

Let me sketch you in the color that my nails scream 

I am a beast

Worthy of loving hard


I can piece you together 

String you up 

And wring you out 

Inky water

Stained towels

I am soft and pink

And sharp and hot 

Grey and red 

I feel like your first piercing 

And your last kiss 

The moment before you escape into the blackness of an empty canvas 

The whisper you hear all alone 

And the scent you miss on rainy mornings as you blot cream into your coffee

I am the inkblot imprinted on your brain

I am the painter that makes you feel every soul that has ever loved me 

And every love that has ever sold me

From the comfort of cold ceramic tile

Show me where to hang my love 

Guide my hands toward where you want the brush strokes 

Let me paint a hearth across your belly 

Let me warm my cracked hands against you 

Surrealism such as yours feels like fire

Decadence such as mine can feel surreal 

My shape melts into yours 

And I will drip a wax painting into your physique 

Mollify your portrait with my brine 

Chip the pigment from my spine

Rip the stone from my face

I will moan for you 

A Gregorian chant of my making 

But in the end I am the painting

An epic truth I have always known

I feel like ripened berries 

Because I am under your control 

Art shapes those it holds

But I am cold 

And golden



You are in control 

My dear 

You hold 

The chilled emptiness my bed echoes with in your departure 

You wield 

The ache my body bakes in 

At the sound of vacant desolation 

Let my thighs wrap around you one last time 

And paint me 

If sterling artwork bleeds no trepidation 

Fear not 

I have none 

Paint me in a field of red carnations 



And strong 

Do not paint me wrong 

Paint me as you see me in this bed

Drowned in your luminescence 

Only occluded in your deprivation

Hesitation does not hold my tongue 

I will profess every dream you give me

An apostle to my God

Grandeur of Libido

Grandeur of Libido

Thanks for the Invalidation

Thanks for the Invalidation