Her eyes spoke the words that her lips never said
As she lay there in silence curled up on the bed,
A solitary teardrop meandering her face
That fell from flushed cheeks onto bed sheets of lace.

With a vacant expression and hollowed out stare
Concealing the heartbreak and utter despair,
She clung to the pillow, so tight to her chest,
Upon which the head of her true love would rest.

The rose of her heart had succumbed to decay,
Faded, diminished, and withered away,
Blackened by misery, hardened through grief,
And drained of all passion by death's cunning thief.

Her once perfect world like those empires of old
Had crumbled to ruin, so desolate and cold,
No longer would love warm her soul like the sun
For the harshest of winters had now just begun.

In the recess of memory, precious and pure,
Her lover's last kiss would forever endure,
A comfort in sorrow and constant lament
Till the days of her own life are equally spent.

She paints smiles on people's faces
But she can't paint one for herself

Day by day, she tries
Everyday, she fails

Until she came up with an idea
of painting her last canvas
She wants it to be memorable
and so she did it

Not with a brush, but with a razor
Not on a paper, but on her wrist
And the colors were not pastels
nor watercolors, but it was red.
It was blood.
And it spilled
Til it was too much.

True enough, her masterpiece
was remembered
It was seen as a symbol of sin by some,
some say it's simply tragic
some try to understand
--and for her that's art--
Something that tells a story
sad and beautiful at the same time

*The painter wanted to be a masterpiece
And so
she became one