She was more than just the art hanging on the walls.
She was also the space that filled the inquisition of explanation.
The colors of acrylic fragmented on the blank canvass of possibility, opportunity and adventure.
She new the strokes of emotion too well. The beating and the begging. The pain of staying in places that dulled out her color.
Yet it was those Brussels that alluded to the inquisition of she.
The she that remains nameless
The she who encountered the blessing and self indulgence of self inflicted pain.
The endurance of remaining trapped between the nectar of honey collected and maintained.
The secrecy of the silence of death… the death of acquisition, the death of she. the death of oui.
No she screamed, but you failed to listen. Instead you took on angry strokes to challenge her acquisition. She learned to evolve from the pain, from the beating stroke left on canvas. from the murder that tore the essence of life that laid in her blood line. the only bloodline she’d never get to see. you see you painted on her canvas in hues that cut her life line. the colors that outlined her level of trust. and after years of letting the dust run dry.