The Painter’s Body

By: Little Box Child


I’m a painter. Never less, never greater. Look at me, and tell me what you see. I’m just a painter. I want you to take a step back. Look at me clearly. Haven’t you notice my eyes? My hair? My size? Or even my layers? If not, come with me and I’ll give you an exclusive tour of a painter.

I’m just like you, but a little stranger. Different, I may say. Let’s start with my eyes. They may look fine, but they’re just eyes. How can someone know the feelings my paintings feels? My paintings are subconscious, from the way people stare with their judgmental eyes. Eyes that can see, but too foolish to think. My eyes are tired.

I’m aching to go to sleep; my hands keep going to the end to feel complete. Some days, I wonder what my masterpieces may be. The beauty many people may seek may lie beneath a brush stock or a splat of paint. These hands are fragile, but they create beautiful things. And you must be inviting to see with your eyes.

Beauty is pain. It always makes a stain on my creations.

My feet are small, but they always reach their destination. They help me get around town and go places. Leaving footprints of my journey and distant faces. My feet dragged me through many artist’s blocks, hurdles, and rocks.  

If I were in my world, I’m a warrior. My paint brush is my weapon. My ideas are my ammunition. And like that, I’m a fighter trying to reach my goal and to escape this dark hole.