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she was born out of kahlo's needles with a sickly sweet yet serrated strawberry for a heart which sometimes bled in a flurry of orange and scarlet, flushing her in desire.

she picked up the colours and painted them on her easel till the paper smelt of charred tar and her heart ached and echoed emptiness.

/*

the hollow sockets which she called her eyes now wailed, for they could grasp the entire world in one gulp, but they could not bear to witness a white void which seemed to engulf them alive.

she had already been broken into a thousand pieces last time, which she had then picked one by one and held them all together - now they were starting to slip from her grip once more.

oh, what could she do?
....a muse.
yes, yes, a muse.
that's what she needed now.

she scrounged the streets of her beaten-down town till she found him.

she knew he would be the one for she could sense that electric heart which had so many specks of chrome making it up that it dazzled when you looked at it.

so she painted those colors on her wan easel until her canvas learned how to care and cry, the marble floor rolled with the movement of the colours and the chandelier of her nightmares finally began to sing.

finally she tied her ribs together with a red ribbon so that her heart would stay hushed for some time.

she sipped on merlot wine with her enervated muse, fantasizing about her name hanging in the louvre beside her new-born painting.

that was when she realised, her art wasn't complete yet - she had to complete one ritual to tie her colours into a knot.

sleep was descending.
the clock was ticking.
....her muse.
she knew what she had to do.

she refused to believe she was a psychopath for it was her infant mind which made her believe that the art couldn't live with the muse still walking the earth --- she needed to b a parasite to give birth to an alive art out of her womb.

when his eyelids were closed in a child's slumber, she adorned her muse, alive, with the soil in her backyard for the 164th time.

with a satisfactory chuckle she washed the grave mud off her dainty fingers, finishing her daydream of the louvre; what was an artist if they didn't play with their colours?

/*

today, she is haunting the streets once more for her savage shovel has dug the 165th grave in her backyard; her strawberry heart is ripe and dripping.

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