Copyright Stolen

She called me her Sister,

Her intimate friend;

I wish I had known

What she really meant.

An active promoter

Of post-modern art,

She knew how to win

My trust from the start.

Her gifts and affections

Were just a smoke screen:

She wanted to study

What I have Within.

She looked for an original

To imitate,

When I got it figured,

It was too late.

“I’m now an artist!”

She had declared, —

And used my ideas

I privately shared.

At first I denied it:

How could it be

That my art director

Would do it to me?

Her book of self-portraits

In sepia tones

Is sneaky parade

Of my Soul’s white-gowned clones.

Whatever I told her

I want to create,

When I have the means —

She did replicate.

She copied a few

Of my earlier works,

And my catchy phrases,

In my own words.

But what had disgusted me

Most of it all —

She claimed to have had

My Dark Night of the Soul.

Stark initiation

That I did not choose

Is my hard-earned Gift

She has no right to use.

She sent me a copy —

Signed, words of praise;

To me, though, it felt

Like a slap in the face.

It didn’t end there:

She copied my looks,

And parroted stuff

That I post on Facebook.

She took up some painting,

And I recognized

The themes over which

I had agonized.

What cost me the pain,

Struggle and tears,

She stole without shame

And got all the cheers.

Her manners are sweet

And her tricks are sublime.

A friend of mine told me:

“You have been slimed.”

Her sophistication

And New Agey speech

Is sly, well-rehearsed,

Ill-intended sales pitch.

Such person is called

A skin-suit narcissist.

Identity theft

Is her way to exist.

My garment she wears

And says it’s her skin

May only belong

To those of my kin.

My Gift she had coveted

As shiny prize

Is black pit to her,

The final demise.

She envied my glow

So it’s time to learn:

To shine like a star,

You really burn.

I just walked away

After final goodbye.

I fucking hate people,

And hope you see why.

April - September, 2019.