Art is what I’m good at. I remember
painting the little red dots on butterfly's
wings with my crayons while the other kids
were painting their wiggly caterpillars.
Art is my success. Leaving the gallery,
heading back towards my safe house, my
very own fortress of solitude. The familiar
rays of light through the punctured walls, I
see the pinkish gloaming touch of light
shining on my nearly finished oil painting
It could have been done if my husband
didn't bring up the "having kids together"
topic. I’ m not ready yet.
Because the truth is
You were sleeping in your mother’s
womb, while I was receiving nutrients from
plastic tubes in transparent shell
I was born, without Love
But I am not heartless
You are the love of my life,
but ‘forever’ is so unreal for us
My existence is proposed,
as a fulfilment for your world
And it will end,
before our niece paint the first butterfly
