Were you Matisse
you'd paint skinny girls and politicians
in the curtained wings
of my one-woman show,
your palette knife suggesting
more than two dimensions.

My skin
would be subtle hues
of fire and sadness in flat strokes,
the layers of a girl who whispers prayers to the Southern Cross
from the foot of her godless bed.

Despite this
you believe in my
tired-eyed trickle
lingering over the sink
pink rubber gloved at the height of the party;
you'd paint shadows beneath my eyes,
blue stains of hesitation
glimpsed through your third eye, or mine, or something you see
when I look away.