Portrait 1

Do not read between my lines-
no more
do not criticize nor praise the flow;
I will no longer move you.
Do not let the sadness of my words
reach your resilient heart.
Just watch me hanging
on the walls of your memory
like a da Vinci's painting
as I give birth to my first portrait.

An apathetic brush
was passing over sleepy shoulders
that leant at the edge of a wooden bed,
grey sheets made of lost clouds
were floating in the background;
so dim they reflected
the frail luminescence
of my pale face.
There was mourning
in the smell of colors.
Art that won over
the death of my poetry.

No more raw feelings,
only pallets, lipsticks and concealers
to cover the folds of my life
and run all over the pages
of my heart.

Artificial,
but still as real.