Muse?

I was your Muse, Inspiring you, my body a canvas for your violence. Did I change over time, or did you change me? Was I anything before? Was I empty? But then, what did you see in me? Yes, I must have been empty; you let your emotions play until you saw colors. I brought you no more satisfaction, so you left me somewhere cold and dark. The paint was still fresh, and dust clung to my skin. When it dried, it wouldn’t come off—perhaps there was nothing underneath. Unrecognizable, I tried to add new layers, paint over, but it became a mess. So I attempted to shape with clay, yet it broke. Music didn’t work; I felt no harmony. I spilled ink while writing and trembled while crocheting. I stumbled while dancing, lacking rhythm. With photography, I didn’t know what to capture. I lack the essence of a muse; I am not art. But am I also no artist? Were you ever one?