I don’t want to be your muse, your art, your project. The body you look at, that only sparks a fleeting energy inside. I don’t want to be your creation—something to inspire you, but temporarily. Something you admire, but then leave to look pretty on a wall, on a shelf.
I don’t want to be the thing that satisfies you, but only for a moment. Until you move to the next object of your desire, leaving me as a reminder of what was.
I don’t want to be your craft—something you perfect, you attempt to change. Something you draw from when your well is empty, to take and take and never give.
I don’t want to lose myself becoming something you deem worthy. I don’t want to forget who I am because I’m so busy trying to form to your every whim and wish.
I don’t want to be the woman you look at—not for who she is, but as a revelation—never digging deep enough to know the real her.
I don’t want to be a moment of imagination, where we make eye contact, and yet you see right through me. Where every glance shared between us is a warped reality, not love.
I don’t want to be the woman you write about, create art about, sing songs about, but never keep.