"Miss, we have to ask you to stop touching the art" the guard said as I wandered through a familiar art gallery. It's where I first met you. The sunlight clinging to you like the knit sweater you had on. You looked like a work of art, like you belonged in the gallery. Maybe that's why we could never touch. Because society acting like guards had always kept us apart. It was never socially acceptable to touch something so rare and so precious, because our filthy human hands could possibly stain it's pureness. Little did they know it's actually you who stained me. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. My emotions are stained and displayed on these pages as I continue to write this fucked up poem. You stained me with pain I never knew before. It's as if we were a painting in Picasso's Blue Period. And I am now the Crazy Woman. I am crazy because I loved you, I could not help it. Beauty is naturally appreciated.
