Impressionist

I’m too caught up in your dabs of red and purple to step back and see the flowers you claim to have created. “It shall be a Masterpiece worthy of the Louvre,” but I can’t do anything except watch you repeatedly dip the brush in the colors of your lies and throw them at the canvas. “I’m painting you, my love.” I saw your pencil sketches, but only began to fear when you began to make them permanent, dragging oils across my indistinct image. Now all I can see is my reflection in the frame, squinting, trying to make sense of it all as you’re phoning the gallery. “A Masterpiece, behold my creation, the perfection of the form in divine inspiration! My colors, my themes, in perfect combination.” As though you need them to define me.