i-i.

She was a piece of art to others
Untouchable, unreachable, a mystery to most.
She was mine, and was everything to me
She was everything I’m not and never will be.

She was an artist
Her paintings strewn across rooms
Funny how they were never bright
They always seemed to carry my soul’s gloom.

Nobody is perfect
But she damn well could be
She was the closest thing to heaven
Though she kept her heart under lock and key.

I never understood why she picked
A struggling poet as I
For she was simple and I was not
For I was cold and she was hot.

I loved her so
Even more than she would
I gifted her words and poetry
Because that’s all I knew and could.

i-ii.

[Around the studio.]

Statues of a broken cupid’s bow and arrow
And a messily split vein
Paint splashes covering detailed sketches
The dark colours dripping down the drain

Frustrated cries and agonizing screams
Emitted from the soundproof room
She didn’t understand what she was feeling
She didn’t expect it to be so soon

No matter how much destruction
She put herself and the objects around her through
The feeling of dread never left
The feeling of regret in her only grew.

Soft words were always spoken like a mantra
When she wept in the corner on her own
“Please leave me, for your own good.
Please, just don’t stay… no matter how much I hate being alone.”