Painting Her

I lied to her – I will never stop. Her ceaseless rejuvenating power of forgiveness entices my evilness to take over me and her virtuousness.

Now I am alone, but married to that woman long enough that I despise her and myself for being the idiot of the year, even the idiot of my time, yet to be crowned.

I met her on the street; her inability to comprehend my language never discouraged my twisted intentions to finally decide to be with the wrong woman for the third time.

It is hard to believe I cut all the miles from uncle Sam’s to the Pharaonic desert rose to fall in love with a woman and end up with another; things that divide us are more than what unite us. I still married her. It only took one night after marriage to realize all I needed was sex, when only a one night stand could have saved me from falling into a brand new fiasco.

The night’s over and all I could think of is the woman I still ache for. Looking at my wife’s face reminds me of another stupid move I made drove me away from happiness. I see her in my wife though. I kiss her and make love to her constantly. She doesn’t know but I do…she doesn’t feel but I do. And that’s enough to do.

She thinks revenge was my attempt. I let her believe so she doesn’t scorn my animality. I am too fragile and desperate for something, it’s the only thing I cannot paint nor foresee, like fate.

I look back on the days when I could call myself “happy” and as much as my heart is filled with remorse, I enjoy hunting her all over again. She’s my breath of fresh air, as well as my prey, my slave, my power, my passion, my muse, my portrait, and my only lover. I love her, endlessly and I couldn’t be more hateful.

I hate her defiance, her strength, her overwhelming love for me. She walks out of the room, I am defenseless. I stand infront of her, when our eyes meet I am electrofired. Her passion blazing eyes fray my will to resist her. Shockingly, her pride belittles me and all I see is a little boy looking up to his mother… fails to reach her resolute shoulders.

It is not fair to be the butcher and the slaughtered at once. History doesn’t forgive nor will the future, and my present atopped with the curse of sinning. I am sinful, alas, joyous. What do I need it for? I had her right in my hand…guess a clench of my fist is all it should take.

She fits well in my arms. She feels safe in my embrace, the very one that betrayed her, like my brush fails to paint her. Yes, I want to paint her. How ironic! A woman of her kind can’t flourish in my painting. Her challenging dignity impossible to conceive beneath my lines… too coarse for my brush to obey.

I want to be inside her, around her, God I want to be her. I look at her and envy God’s creation for she embodies perfection; my kind of whore and saint, at once.

She has the gift of timing, never too loose- never too tight. She likes to dance between the lines, my type of dancer. Yet moves too fast for my pace, supernaturally, I cannot catch her. Maybe after all she’s not earthly.

I think I’m drowning in the realm of her forgiveness, and more of my self. The memory of fighting which I’m lacking has no reason to retrieve. I enjoy being the clown, play the two faces of a character, mocked by some and feared by others.

I’m her Satan of that I’m aware, yet the answer to her unfulfilled prayers. She carries me in her heart and keeps dripping bitterness. It’s the remnants of all hope I savaged in her.

This wound won’t heal – do we want it to heal? I know she can’t and I don’t want it to be healed. If I’m her cut – she’s my cactus. Mistakenly grew a flower in a desert soil and all I have is cactus. Fed by thoughts full of her, my solace, midst the heat of the perfect loneliness I’ve come to banish myself into, and my thriving wish to finish her.



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