The Picture of Dorian Gray.

I feel like a badly drawn picture of a girl

Bent out of shape, losing features in the swirl

Or the dot of the Impressionist brush

Something about being such a beautiful mess is a headrush

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I feel like a child’s illustration of a woman

My features indistinguishable from others

I could embody a Picasso; be Modiglanese or Rosetti,

But I languish on paper, drawn in brush-tipped felt pen,

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Disproportionate. Intense. Where do I fit in the frame?

What are my colours? Am I lineless? What’s your perception of me?

I wish I were a muse or a model, see myself in illustration,

I wish I could live as pure Pateritian aesthete.

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Art is for the chocolate-box, or the museum gift-shop,

It is not for the likes of me.

And yet, here I am: semiotic, an image to interpret,

Drawn from life, standing in for the whole. Inescapable physicality.

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I feel like a portrait of myself in your hand,

A sketch in motion, a never fixéd line

On a walk. I was born from adoration, ripe for interpretation,

But I am curated, untrue; taste this knowledge and you’ll never be satiated.