She didn’t wear her tragedies.
They weren’t dresses she could discard when inconvenient.
Heartbreak doesn’t care about your calendar.
Traumas were moles on her body-
Sometimes visible, despite her best efforts to hide them.
She didn’t regard agony with affect,
Refused to romanticize the gory truths tangled between her ears.
Though they tried,
Men could not evaporate her into fantasy–
Into an idea untethered to skin and memories.
She was person,
If they wanted art,
Purchase a palette of paint.
Her skin was not a canvas for their musings of what women would be.
Men wanted her for the words she illuminated in them.
They wanted to glorify her complications,
Having never lived them.
In the end,
She refused to trade whole for surface,
Knowing there were those out there who will adore her without motive.