It is not that oil paint and tears do not mix,
my dear Frida; it is that society feels threatened
by the candour of women who create
art from their sadness.

When she was sad,
she was very sad indeed.

When she was lonely,
she was horrid.

“It’s you and me, Kid.”

{internal monologue}

Maybe if I push my sadness down
deep enough, it won’t be able to reach me anymore.

Little Miss Muffet
sat on a tuffet,
eating her curds and whey.

Along came a spider
who sat down beside her,
and yet she does not stray.

Though an arachnid–
preferable sidekick,
better than being slain.

For, vacant across the room:
“A stool?” No! a tomb!
where he-wolf lies in wait.

I don’t want to carry bear spray
because I’m afraid of being
attacked by a bear; I want to
carry bear spray because I’m afraid
of being attacked by a man.

If I had to choose between being
alone in a forest with a bear
or being alone in a forest
with a man, I would choose
the bear. See, you can reason
with a hungry bear; you cannot
reason with a hungry man.