The Painting

The painting,
Scarred,
Imperfect,
Impetuous.

It stares at her,
Looking,
Smirking,
Mocking.

She stares back,
Sobbing,
Hurting,
Broken.

She begs it to stop,
The frost bite in her heart too much to bear.

It stares at her.
She screams in agony,
Fists clutch hair,
Tears spill over,
And a broken little girl curls up.

It stares at her,
Looking,
Smirking,
Mocking.

She stares back,
Sobbing,
Hurting,
Broken.

The smiling faces in the painting,
Perfect,
Pristine,
Impetuous.

They strike her down,
Day by day,
As she watches herself fall in love,
With the most wonderful man.

It stares at her,
From the firm shelf,
Across the beautiful room,
At the broken little girl,
An urn,
One name across it's basin.

"Love"





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