He looks for love in my eyes, not to be shown for him, but to be shown to myself. Because ever since I had left my dream of individual artistry, I hadn’t felt one inch of love for myself compared to the mountain of self hatred I’ve climbed over and over to successfully be his muse. I had once believed that at the peak of said mountain, there would be the greatest monument of love for me to take it all in; let the love grow its roots into my arms and connect to the arteries of my heart and the strings of my soul. For once, I’d love myself as much as he loved his muse. In which, his muse was me. So still, so lifeless, so pretty, like the dew that has already fallen and sits on the leaves in early spring.

“You’re going to love it, the painting. I promise.” He whispered with a crack in his smile, he was joyous due to the artistic works value in currency; not for my looks or appreciation of beauty. Despite this, I knew he was sympathetic after containing my freedom for all these years. He had done that for one simple thing, the object that was derived from greed, that could turn any innocent man bad; Money. So though he felt guilty, greed far overpowered his weighing of pity for me.

His art sold for more money than most, people admired from up close and from afar the way of the paintbrush strokes and the water colored reigns of the canvas. They could only imagine the pain and the dehumanizing feeling it is to sit and mold into a piece of art rather than a woman of my own mind. For I had to sit hours upon hours, never daring to twitch my fingers or blink for more than a second, just so he could make my replica more admirable than the original that I am.

“Love it? Love the painting of me that is merely a redo of the same pose Ive suffered in for multiple occasions? It is no different, In fact, I feel more hatred for myself with every sold article of yours.” My voice lowered into anger, yet softly spoken like a wave slowly bringing in the water before a tsunami, “The people admire the beauty of your painting, the way of the brush, but they do not truly admire the muse who is me. They do not admire my soul or my flesh or the thoughts that form my spirits uniqueness. It is not me.”

He lifted his head from the esiel and his eyes whispered threats to me as he narrowed them.

“How Can you speak on art, when you’re not an artist? You are a muse, therefore why do you speak at all? Don’t dare to question my canvas until you’ve filled one with all the colors of the paint pallet, until you’ve filled every edge of white crevice left within a canvas.”

I stayed silent. He seemed to be inspecting my face, to see if maybe he had intimidated me into silence. Yet I was only silenced because it was troubling, truly, to endure the audacity of his words. I could have been an artist, I could have done it all, had I been given the chance. But he— he took me for his self! Why was I a muse if I wasn’t admired for me, why was I not an artist if I can feel the talent in my bones? Oh, why **_god_**, must it be me?

“I,” I started, anger blended to melancholy disappointment in my words. “Could have. I would have done it, would’ve chased my dreams. But I am stuck now, being the muse for you. Whom is not love for me, but for your **_own_** portrayal of me.”