Kimberly Ramos
Portrait of a Tinder User
I have abstracted
myself for the pleasure
of being looked at by bored museum-goers,
the way they might carelessly glance over
my shoulders, round like Monet’s
lesser loved haystacks,
or the thick shapes of my nose and
cheeks, bright like Pollock’s early
failures, riots of shape and color
that do not stream or scream delightfully
like Lavender Mist.
My placard speaks benignly
of things like the shitty indie music
I dance to in a dorm room
x miles away from you,
eye color, “looking for something
casual.” The museum-goers have heavy
lidded eyes, always half-asleep.
The most they can say is,
“That’s nice,” as they trek to the next
piece. But if you research more
you will learn that I was painted
in 1999 to the sound of drizzling rain
and a stereo that sung old static,
white orthopedic work shoes by the door
and a crucifix above the bed.
If you wonder where the method
my cheekbones originated
it was somewhere in the Philippines
where the air steals the breath of small children
swimming in ditches.
The same goes for the broad
brushstrokes of my hair, while the spray
of organ colored paint
is from my mother and her genetically
fatty heart, the destiny it beats
as it fills itself up with worries and plaque.
But I won’t talk too much about that.
Good art makes you feel nothing,
like a proper anesthetic.
Why else would hotels bother
with beige circles and teal squares?
It is enough to be looked
at between the starry nights
and the water lilies. It is enough to be
abstracted and framed upon a wall,
and unlike good art
I will allow you to touch me.
I have abstracted
myself for the pleasure
of being looked at by bored museum-goers,
the way they might carelessly glance over
my shoulders, round like Monet’s
lesser loved haystacks,
or the thick shapes of my nose and
cheeks, bright like Pollock’s early
failures, riots of shape and color
that do not stream or scream delightfully
like Lavender Mist.
My placard speaks benignly
of things like the shitty indie music
I dance to in a dorm room
x miles away from you,
eye color, “looking for something
casual.” The museum-goers have heavy
lidded eyes, always half-asleep.
The most they can say is,
“That’s nice,” as they trek to the next
piece. But if you research more
you will learn that I was painted
in 1999 to the sound of drizzling rain
and a stereo that sung old static,
white orthopedic work shoes by the door
and a crucifix above the bed.
If you wonder where the method
my cheekbones originated
it was somewhere in the Philippines
where the air steals the breath of small children
swimming in ditches.
The same goes for the broad
brushstrokes of my hair, while the spray
of organ colored paint
is from my mother and her genetically
fatty heart, the destiny it beats
as it fills itself up with worries and plaque.
But I won’t talk too much about that.
Good art makes you feel nothing,
like a proper anesthetic.
Why else would hotels bother
with beige circles and teal squares?
It is enough to be looked
at between the starry nights
and the water lilies. It is enough to be
abstracted and framed upon a wall,
and unlike good art
I will allow you to touch me.
Kimberly Ramos is a creative writing and psychology double major attending Truman State University. She is originally from Farmington, Missouri. She has previously published work in Watershed Review, The Poet’s Haven, and Underground.