Self-Deceit #3

after Francesca Woodman

A heart painted on a cracked wall. The concept of broken heart, relationships, love, friendship, marriage, graffiti.

I know that room inside you
where you go to hide 
when you’re scared and 
don’t want to be seen. 
Where your back is turned 
away, eyes lowered 
if they’re even open, 
shut against some shame. 
And I’m beginning to think 
shame is always a lie. To leave 
the house without 
mascara, and not have to 
say anything to anyone. 
To know the make of the wall 
of that room inside us 
tells me as much as glass 
set against a dark back. 
I have a thing for backs. 
I can see where you shoulder 
your heartbreak, can guess 
where you feel cracked 
concrete maybe poured 
over your heart once, 
and I can take the hand 
that reaches for the hammer 
with which to chip away 
gently, gently. 

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