MARAVILLA

If walls could talk, they would also feel.

They would see.

Hear.

Touch.

Smell-

a heart leaking

something so strong

the people can smell it in the streets…

If walls could talk, they would have endless years of layered rage and plastered over pain to scrape away.

***

We are old, and we have seen too much.

We watched you bathe his bloated sphere of a belly, surrounded by bubbles and toys- a gargantuan manchild. Diego was an infant, Frida. But he was not yours.

We have bore witness to your incessant pain, kept close watch as you would writhe and wither away into a slow numbness where you might find sleep.

Not rest. Just sleep.

You awaken, reality confusing for a fleeting moment, a steel corset constructed mind finds solace in the sight of itself. We know why the mirrors are here.

Frida, you exist. (Mara-) You are a dissociative marvel.

You are the temptress who entices the soul through the senses.

You are a lover. You are the light. We despise the four poster prison you live inside.

You exist with or without these men, these women- these reflections of yourself bouncing across every inch of our own chipping paint, our sun-dried and crisp wallpaper.

We do exist, too. And we ache to protect you.

We have seen the abuse you have suffered at the hands of Men, of Doctors,

of the Respected. We watched you neglected.

The vibrations of your breathless sobs will live within our wood for eternity.

There is a space where we held you steadfast as you slumped, as you fell down our sides to the floor fetal- where we could no longer reach you, but we asked the floors to hold you tight.

We have been honored to be your quiet confidants, listening closely to you whisper and scrawl into your diary at night.

The colors of your soul kept us young for years. Morphine and brandy-addled giggles and chain-smoke yellowing our skin, ruining your teeth but never your grin.

We have seen the resplendency of your creation, the sturdy stucco of your spirit, the intricate intensities of your Love.

You have manipulated the make-up of our mission.

From wood to weary and weathered, we have aged considerably as we have loved you.

Farewell, our dear friend; may the future that surrounds you protect you better than we.

“I hope the exit is joyful — and I hope never to return. FRIDA”