I ran away just to face my own horrors. I ran away from my passions, the same way millionaires run from their debt. To an European island where all inhibitions are free, the weather is hot, and love is dressed in a beautiful gown, speaking with an unknown accent, selling poems and dreams by the Riviera.
And there I was, most beautiful, most youthful, but utterly heartbroken. In debt with my heart and my soul. I could not meet anyone's gaze or tanned skin, even as they served me sparkling water in a wine glass, thanking me for merely existing. In love with a man who only loves my shadow and my silhouette. My hips were on the plate, my legs were over the table, and my figure shattered into diamonds. He does not love me enough to delicately tend to the immense hurt within my heart.
Yet, on an Italian island, I found myself peeling lemons and savoring them with sugar. A metaphor for my life. That's exactly what love tastes like. The ache descends upon me like sweat on my back, and all I can think about is how it feels to be genuinely caressed on the parts of my body that only my poems have witnessed.
I'm on the most beautiful island. And I might not be the most beautiful thing here, but my heart is. With its cracked surface, fractured interior, diamonds scattered on the floor, and colorful glass veins.
Finally, sun rays break through; finally, the yearning for him finds its place. Finally, tears fall from a seductive woman confessing the sins of love.
This confessional, this heart, has finally shattered, and the entire island trembles.
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kianamaiart
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