Painted Lady

She paints herself, to better blend in;

She pampers and softens,

                                     she plans all the right moves.

She frets, ruffling her dusty feathers,

so battered and dull, the sheen lost

to empty restless nights alone;

alone and growing cold in the night.

She panics, blood rushing in waves,

crashing against her organs,

breath blown like strong wind.

She picks her clothes,

covers herself in shrouds;

she knows you will be looking.

She knows you will map her out;

the rivers and channels that create her landscape.

She paces, wondering if she will be

enough for you.

She only wants to be what you desire.

She wants to be the last thing you see

before you fall into sleep;

the memory you search for in your dreams.

She only yearns to have you coming back;

wishing to see more of her.

Be with her.

Love her.

Is this what we must do?

Morph into another, less wholesome,

creation of ourselves

to secure love and emotion?

How many forms can we take?

Is this just going to be a


a raging brutal clash of

shape-shifting and anxiety?

Are we just going to tally

the numbers of different self

we can create walking out

of bloodied bedrooms?

The scars of each transformation

hiding on secret patches of skin.

I’m running out of choices…

*Art by Joan Marti Aragonés- Pinterest*


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