I Bare Myself to You

I bare myself to you,
A willing subject,
I'll remain still as you paint me,
A smile for your determined brushstrokes,
A frown when you appear pensive,
A smirk when I catch that mischievous glint,
Signaling your intention for something playful,
Like giving me an exaggerated caricature nose just for fun,
Remember, once a stroke touches your canvas,
It can't be erased,
Only transformed into what you intended to create.

You'll witness my imperfections,
How will you choose to depict them?
You'll see my deep brown eyes,
How will you capture their essence?
When you can't find the right color on your palette,
Do you know I have a habit of touching my face,
When I sense a photograph is about to be taken,
A habit formed during the time when this face you've touched countless times,
Was marred by acne,
A challenging period in my youth.
Would you also paint the dark shadow that cast upon my face,
When I recall that part of my past?

I tend to cover my knees,
Remnants of scrapes from running and losing control as a ten-year-old,
The scars never faded,
Nor did the memories,
I still remember every time I run.
Yet, I bear other scars that may raise your eyebrows,
If I ever told you how I acquired them,
But they have molded me into someone deserving of your artistic commission.
Please, don't paint a river behind me,
As my very first nightmare involved being carried away by a river.
I could have frolicked in it like the other children,
But there was always something about the force of water,
That I have instinctively recognized.
It's been 26 years,
And I still can't swim.

It's been a while since you've stared blankly at your canvas,
Inanimate objects unnerve me,
For science has taught me that objects should be in constant motion.
I tend to absorb the qualities of the objects, things, and people around me,
So don't be surprised if I shut down too,
If my movements become mechanical,
If my emotions turn rehearsed,
If my smiles lose their spark,
And I become an enigmatic clay mask.

Understand that you can't paint it all,
There aren't enough brushes, canvases, colors, or paints,
To capture every facet of me that you'll bring into existence through your artistry.
In the end, it will be an artifice,
To display several paintings of me side by side,
For your brushwork will inevitably reflect your own essence.

Please, don't paint the uniform I've shed,
Don't depict the muskets behind me.
I find solace in a garden,
Yet, I'm prepared to confront the bees and triumph in the light of day,
As much as I am willing to entice the queen for a taste of honey under the night sky.
I do not wish to be seen solely as a man of war,
Lest they deem me heartless,
Nor as a man of peace,
Lest they perceive me as feeble.
I would rather be recognized as a man,
Who, despite everything men are taught,
Did what men are instructed not to do.
I bare myself to you.