She locked her heart in a cage whose key was made of ice. With a smile on her face, she saw the mess of a puddle the key left on the floor as her caged heart grew wings now. That’s when she learned that the spirited can’t be controlled, the spirited cannot be tamed. If there was no key to undo the chains that bound her heart, then the chains would simply rust and wither. If the rust penetrated the flesh of her soul, her soul would simply nourish the wound and cover the flesh with fresh skin with only the scars remained to tell their tale. If the sight of her scars brought her pain, her eyes would simply hinder the view with the salty tears of her memories that she had locked away along with her heart.
She was insanely beautiful. Her scars were masked from everyone’s view because she was good at the act of disguise. If life was the festival of Halloween, she owned every costume and every costume shop. But she did wear scars, scars that once never existed beneath her façade of an exterior; scars that didn’t carve into the depths of her being, into her veins. Scars that didn’t dilute her blood with the pain that they brought with them. Her mind, body and soul never knew of scars until the beast came along to show her that perfection was a mere mirage and every perfect thing needed to be ripped open and exposed to the world, needed to feel the steel end of the sword churning into the depths of your interior to mark your untouched soul with the wounds that would bleed for eternity and sting you for life.
In every morning coffee, she would sense a bitterness that wasn’t the beverage’s natural flavour. In every newspaper, she would see news that didn’t actually belong there and in every laugh and every hug, she would search for signs of abandonment and that’s when she’ll know that deep down she’s damaged- damaged to a point where the pain didn’t grow numb but her feelings did.
She was a masterpiece that once hung securely in her frame on the wall. Until the world dropped her to the floor, stepped on her pastels and acrylics. She now became a wrecked masterpiece with her paints and lines smudged and all of her distinct outlines blurring into one.
But don’t worry my dear darling, for the world of perfection and portraits, antique pieces and crowned Mona Lisa’s are far gone. You live in the modern era, my precious and all your blurred lines and smudged paint make for a bigger painting with a deeper meaning. In the world of bizarre colour and admiration, you’re the most bizarre of all because my dearest, all your mosaiced broken pieces of your soul and heart constitute the world’s greatest modern art.