Facing Reality


I really suppose I need to face reality. The fact is, I will never be the type of woman to inspire poetry or paintings. No love-struck artists will moon and sigh over me, and dedicate reams of poetry to my eyes, or sacrifice canvas to my image. I might inspire a vitriolic email every now and then, but that’s not exactly art, is it?

I do not inspire
desire
when face to face
with potential lovers.
Hands seek only
the warmth my skin provides,
and do not touch
and tantalize.
They
turn away
and look instead
to their mind’s eye,
and fantasize.

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