Frida Kahlo whispers to me in my sleep, says, and I quote
“You must stay gone,
Train your heart like a dog.”
So I do.

But the cliché about old dogs and new tricks
is true though.

I have a habit
of kissing the sky
and expecting it will return the sentiment
with gifts of rain
for my doubt ridden desert of a soul.

Frida. Did you know this too?
When Diego slandered you
with adulterous escapades
and paint splatters across your back,
did you look up from the whipping crop
and still beg for his sweetness?

When you kissed the second woman,
when you made a passes at the other men,
was it just the accident
making your mind a little fuzzy?
Or was it a deeper hurt stirring inside you?

How did a woman like you
Marry a man like him twice?
This is a question I ask myself twice
a night before I whisper myself to sleep
“train your heart like a dog,” I say
“stay gone,” she says.

But no matter how many times
I wrap my leash around this tree
I can’t seem to see straight.
Or sit straight
Sit, heal, stay.
Stay gone, go stag.
Go without a desire for some praise or some affection.
Was that you, Frida?
Were you just in need of some affection?

Or in need of some punishment
in place of the wounds you
were afraid of inflicting upon yourself?
Self-destruction doesn’t look so pretty
when it’s painted on you by someone else.

Did you ever learn, Frida,
That you are yours and no one else’s?
The answer is no.
Will always be no.
I would know, because
I haven’t quite learned that one myself.

It has never been about validation,
or anything other than a little chaos.
Because we all secretly love it
when things are a little messy.

So who better than a painter
to make a bit of a mess with?
Who better than a victim
than to turn the tables
and turn their reflection onto you?

You didn’t train your dog so well, Frida.
But I don’t want to be like you, Frida.
Unlike you, I’ll take your own good advice.
Stay gone
when he comes a-whistling.
You don’t get a treat every time you do a trick.

You are more than any man’s bitch

I am more than any person’s bitch.

My heart is a bit more head-strong than that.

My body is a bit more upright than that.
I am more than standing on my hind legs and choke chains,
more than bending over backwards,
more than begging , than broken, than well-trained,
more than “isn’t she cute when she…?”
more than “look at what I’ve done for you and this is how you treat me…?”

My heart, unlike like a dog
will not stick out a paw, obediently,
When you ask it to shake.
My heart, unlike any dog
will not run and hide at the sight of rolled up newspapers.

My heart, unlike like any dog
will not roll over for anyone who asks me to.