I paint the story of my bones
on flower petals
watered with my muddy blood
wasted on a crowded street by an upside-down cable car.
I write small words
on long bones
fractured by my everlasting pain
disrupting the fluidity of a forever damaged soul.
I threw my self-portrait
between the borderline of a world
where my dress hangs as a tribute to the skulls and flowers
of my already deceased souls
and the world of dried ink
scribbling the anonymous pages of my fractured spine.
She longs to be the painter
of some magnificent self-portraits made of fleshy words:
grand odes to her beloved
with bushy eyebrows and reddish flowers
crowning the ink-like goddess hair.
Alta's World 