I wonder where her spirit went
After being killed by the man she loved.
Always men: greedy
Yet remembered in history and literature
That I have to depict
Not once but twice with another man
Who said I wouldn’t like the woman who was literally beat and cheated on by her husband if she’d been alive
To see me dance to Portrait of a dead girl.

I’d like to think she’d realised
The poor traits of the man she’d shoved
Time and time again into beautiful paintings
Because that’s all they were:
Just a likeness of a person who should’ve protected her, not poisoned her
And showed her off to the spectators of the crime, guzzling wine
Becoming a permanent portrait in my mind.
I hope she’s having an amazing time.