I always adored being stared at like a painting. Admired for every brush stroke even if it was a flaw - for it became part of the picture and melted between the lines, hardly visible, lying in the beauty of it all. It felt like I was being drawn on the spot. Looked at with eyes that painted my thoughts and touched by hands that sculpted the very chambers of my aching heart. 
	Maybe my hair grew a little too long, maybe it was my voice, the fact that there was hardly one that spoke at all. The painting stopped.
	I remained confined to only the painter's lustful eyes. 
	My name never whispered, never mentioned but never forgot. 
	It was only in moments of desperation when the painter longed for my skin once again, seeking the comfort of a mother that left for her next of kin. As I catch the painter's wasteful tears, I quietly catch mine as well. 
	If I'm so desperately reached for like a man weeping for the hand of a God, why am I left as if God said my blood was poison and I was a sin?