She wanted to kiss him
With the tears of a
Blood born sorrow
Hoping that tomorrow
Would bring them to a better day
Or at least one less hit to the face
Or to understand how one’s caress
Can omit embrace
She was the Mona
To his Di Vinci
To which he had seen beauty
emphasized in mediocrity
Like it was second nature
To state what is
Inevitable and obvious
Brushes rush fast and hard
Onto canvas captivating deep onset
Depression
One after another adding intricate details,
The crack of one rib,
The gash of 5 stitches,
The death of two hearts,
Painted beautifully but
Paintings don’t breathe every
Time you mic them
And paintings don’t bleed every
Time you strike them
Only to step back and
Gaze at his work of art
A rag, seeming to gather
Nothing but
The use of wiping stains,
The Dried blood crusted upon her top lip
Dripping down to reveal a trail
Of pain
Yet her pain does not compensate
For his complex
Unless he ever gets that
Neither does “I’m sorry” and
“It’ll never happen again”
Compensate for
1 rib, 5 stitches, and 2 hearts
But paintings cannot speak
Back these formalities
So she remains mute
And lifeless
Only to appease him as work
He sets her down so
She rests now and but
It only takes a while until he
Comes back to thrust brush strokes
Again,
Rush brush strokes and then
Pain is beauty
So he paints it so beautifully
He plants hits so new that she
sits
And she sits tired
So sick and tired
Of the colors that bleed
And she pleads but
He is immune so he sees
Nothing.
Only the lifeless being he’s
Created.
Painting
1 rib, 5 stitches, 2 hearts
©Danie Rae
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