The Broken Column
She clearly possessed a prowess for art,
while I mastered my intellectual abilities.
She was my Frida,
and I was her Diego.
She knew the secret to life was art,
because art was intelligence,
as they were able to make love to each other,
on her plain white canvas with a keen demonstration of living colors.
I, on the other hand,
was unable to comprehend the ultimate indulgence,
How could I?
I was too rigid to know her fluid manners.
I despised her ways in the beginning,
She made me feel messy,
chaotic and unorganized,
and she smoked too much for a young lady.
During the initial days of our marriage,
she was a neat girl,
Hairless and clean,
I loved feeling the dampness inside of her.
As days passed by,
She forgot to take care of herself,
and our fucking got lesser.
I blamed her and shouted at her,
but she did not bat an eyelid.
She painted her moments away,
my intelligence was coming to a dismal end,
The difference was that in my sad, I could not be an intellectual,
In her sad, she was the greatest artist ever.
Being foolish, I left for a few good years,
went out with a queendom of neat girls,
hairless and pretty,
But none were my Frida.
“Oh! My Frida” I loved her,
All this time I called myself an intellectual,
and I wanted to change my Frida?
My ego had superseded my own self.
Suddenly, a painting flashed by me at that very moment,
She was in this cage of her own and a nail was piercing through her,
She is crying,
She is dying.
She was dying this whole time,
I ran back to Frida that very day,
She held me close with her longing arms and tearful eyes,
Her ashtray was in a heap, almost making a hill out of unwavering ash.
“Make love to me, Diego,” she said.
I made love to her that night,
it was a messy, chaotic, lovable, and spirited night,
That I will always remember.
She died the next morning,
and her funeral took place with a heavy heart,
By all her beloved friends and followers,
alongside her painting from 1944: The Broken Column
The one that led me to her.
