Crying, she locked herself
in her room,
boarded up her window.
She laid down.
I didn't know what I'd done
when I asked about her old lover.
It was casual,
but maybe that was the problem.

Hours turned to weeks.
Her parents brought her
all she asked for.
Wood.
Nails.
Paint.
All she needed.
She didn't leave.

You could hear the anguish,
the hammer,
her feet pacing,
her knees drop to the floor.
You could taste the tears,
the sweat, her blood.

I called to her, ashamed.
Worried.
I drove my fists through the wall.
I drove my car to city limits.
I drove myself to the edge.
I sat in the hall.

When finally the door opened,
she looked mad, accomplished.
No more tears,
just red and black paint
smeared across her eyes.
I reached to her
with broken hands.
She handed me what she'd built -
wood nailed to wood,
crudely cut and shaped,
splintered,
dripping red and black
paint and pitch -
her heart.