Heartbreak makes the greatest art.
But I am not painting with tears,
I'm struggling with the memory of years
Before I met you, when I knew other men:
Ones with beautiful eyes,
And hard fists;
Years of listening to other girls
Talk of being not bruised
But kissed;
Years of trading love for violence,
Wearing whiskey's mark;
Years of surviving not living
Fearing shapes in the dark;
And then I met you.
Suddenly I could fly.
But now you are another pebble
In my beach of burdens,
Lost but heavy.
