The monkeys don’t flinch when I make them ugly.
They don’t ask to be redeemed.
They sit there — naked, posturing, pretending not to care who’s watching.

I draw them instead of myself.
They are my decoys. My stand-ins.
They carry the weight of my confusion
so I can keep my hands clean.

They are caught mid-thought, mid-performance, mid-regret.
They don’t speak, but they perform.
That’s what we do.
That’s what I do.

I didn’t choose them.
They arrived.
And I keep drawing them
because the truth slips out when no one’s looking
and monkeys don’t turn away.