White mascara trails

No gallery opening, this was her private room

the choreography, for her alone.

She painted the walls the colour of her damaged heart,

Black  and blue, depicting bruised and broken.

Through a dart gun she spat balls of dark red liquor

spilling the blood, that now festered within her.

She painted herself then the colour eggshell white

head to toe, cracking, it displayed her frailty.

She sat in the corner and admired her work of art

blistered walls, bleeding truth and grievance.

And the tears that fell created white mascara trails

and a perfect portrayal of her minds imagery.

Locking that door and cleansing in the shower

she washed away all she had created.

Opening the door to another place and time

starting life afresh on a new blank canvas.