Behind the Painting
i hate when people talk about how beautiful broken can be
they say how strong you must be now
so broken but so brave
they ooo and ahh over the intricate designs visible in the cracks
they whisper “see how her tears reflect rainbow? isn’t it just magical?
such heart wrenching honesty that we can’t help but adore.
I can’t help but believe that words like these can only come from people who have never felt the sting they worship.
Like visitors to an art gallery they marvel at things they don’t understand
talking about the colors and facial expressions as if they are the focus of the peice
they fail to see the time the artist put in,
they fail to notice the sweat on their brows, the blood under nails working too long on marble
they miss the late nights with little light, the deep wrinkles from hours spent squinting
and the slumped shoulders of a man utterly exhausted.
they completely ignore the human who suffered for the work.
Like the artist I too am ignored and I am sick of it.
I am not a sculpture,
I am not a painting to be auctioned, appraised, or admired
my cracks are not due to dust and time
my posture not etched in stone.
my tears are not solidl but constantly flowing
I am broken, and it hurts
It’s not beautiful to cry myself to sleep every night
it’s nightmares that keep from sleeping are not magical
my aching back is not elegantly curved
and my shaking hands cannot be stilled.
i am broken, and it fucking hurts.
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