Cold silence across the room
she can feel them, breathing on her neck
She thinks to herself:
“If the walls could speak, there’d be tales to tell”
Can I? Will I?
They’re not supposed to say

Author of an image
Author of a poem
Author of a painting
Don’t know what to say
Don’t know how to speak
I can show you though
Do you want me to show you?

Madwoman in the attic
Running her fingers through her hair
Paint on her skin
And scars in her soul
Baking a cake for the gardener

Tears of bliss run down her cheeks
Snapdragons blossom in her palms
She cuts and offers them to him
She cant reach him
He cant see her
                  
                       -

Darkness falls but optimism remains