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WHAT I TOLD THE ARTIST

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Sorry, I told the artist
As I stepped out of the
room filled with paintings
My figure is no longer
Your inspiration

Your sketchpad is no longer
a mirror,
reflecting the erection of my
Twin Towers

Your 6B will no longer sketch
My curves
Neither will it design my
Unclad pattern
Upon the surface of your full imperial

The lusciousness of my lips
And the succulence of my butt
Will no longer be art works
Displayed on your canvass
Neither will you
Touch my sacred places
With your paint brush again

I’ll miss the hours spent
creating jaw-dropping,
Mouthwatering and
Hormone wakening images
Of me

But, it is time
To turn my back
And say goodbye

MiCi

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