Hannah Mitchell
You were the flowers blooming in my lungs;
so beautiful, but still constricting my breath nonetheless.
I loved you as Icarus loved the sun - too close, too much. And like Icarus, my paper heart burned.
They say that you should never hurt an artist
because you will see a masterpiece of what you’ve done.
There will be all the colors of your mistake,
brush strokes of your lies,
swirls and cracks and stars of your sad little “apology”.
But I would never utter a word.
Not a single drop of paint would reach the canvas that sits in the corner of my closet, waiting for the red of hurt that I felt, the grey of the tearstained dress I wore, the green of the envy I wore on my sleeve.
Because the truth is, you could put a gash through me,
cut me to pieces,
rip the roses from my throat,
and with the last breath left in my quickly leaving soul,
I would apologize for bleeding on your shirt.
Tile Image: Photo by The Cleveland Museum of Art on Unsplash