The music slices into me exposing every truth, every lie. In juxtaposition they lie against one another, my mind races. My pulse is matching the pace. I lay in the world that the music weaves, so delicate like spider webs yet iron strong. I feel breakable to the touch, like a whisper would shatter me in a thousand pieces. Behind my eyelids, I draw every note. Every measure has a beat. I tie the rhythm around me, a weightless ribbon. I paint every available space.. Violet, indigo, orange, turquoise. I want this tapestry filled, every part illustrated so vividly it hurts.
I am your photograph, my smile captured stock-still, trapped, preserved, saved.
I am the medium, I sculpt every detail into the marble. The cold impersonal aura, it is my perfume.
I am each word, rhyming and keeping this iambic pentameter. Each unstressed stressed syllable. Maybe my music will play on, my paintings displayed for the world to judge, my sculptures in textbooks, my poems read in each class.
Maybe I will be the one analyzed and not the one analyzing.