I met her in a painting, once
her portrait a cruel mirror
in a sea of crafted elegance
"How does it feel, my darling?" I whispered to her, brushing a finger against her artist's angry brushstrokes. "Must a woman's freedom always be venomous?"
She did not answer
[how could she, having been made motionless by man?]
but I noticed a smear
of blue under her eyes,
a frustration,
a small act of defiance,
her creator could not hide
and perhaps
I could not prevent the plot
but I hope we both find a way
to show affection towards the
monstrous parts of ourselves
that kept us alive
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
ŞiirThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
