I knew it was over when he painted me in green
like a corpse.
I asked him why and he shrugged,
And with the movement of his great shoulders
He rendered me a carcass a second time.
I had bled through my gloves before, naïve
He laughed that I could only capture, and not create:
King of the Cubists, full of hubris and,
having a wife,
took me as a lover, pupil, friend.
He became my living end.
I bled through my glove as I waltzed a knife
between my imperfect fingers.
He burned my blue eyes to red.
He painted me in green like I was dead.
Do you like it?
How could I tell him it was my death foretold?
A mirror; a scrying, crying glass to the
I will be when he leaves.
That will be the day of my third murder:
the day my spirit dies.
I said I liked it very much. He smiled.
In a moment I was burned with all the kisses he ever gave;
They scorched me like the white sun over Málaga,
filling my mouth and nose with
honeysuckle and night-flowering jasmine.
my other face still stared.
Red eyed. Lop-sided. Monstrous.
It made all the flowers wither in me.
I hated it. And hated him. And loved him with all my heart.
But I knew it was over,
when he painted me in green.
Art by Jade Fagersten