Page 44 - Musings 2020

When they weren’t his
They were a monster’s
Furious
Tired of having his paints washed away
He set out to make something
Which would last
That night
She knew
It was only she herself
Who could decide
Whether he was to paint her eyes closed
Or not paint anymore
Close to giving in
She heard a guttural cry
It echoed off the walls
Which they’d built together
It echoed in her head
Which stopped thinking
It echoed in her throat
Where it came from
And stopped
She found her voice
And left.

44