Her open wound,
still leaking liquid life,
bleeds beneath her masquerade.
“It’s complicated,” she says.
As she tells her tale,
rife with betrayal,
she drops her mask of glass.
Shattered shards fill the room,
as picturesque promises in bloom
fracture upon the floor of frayed fidelity.
Love is scorched by the sun of neglect,
Her strength is not made perfect
through the weakness of her tears.
Her sisters of similar fate
gather like hens to incubate
the hatching eggs of bitterness,
soon to break.
“You don’t need a man,” they say.
One by one they break their seals,
to speak of pain their past reveals.
“Strength” and “Beauty” are the names
they give their masks to hide the shame.
Like little girls with wide eyes
living in sand castles on salt-water beaches.
Inevitably, the tide will rise.
The sanguine print from Romeo’s fist
creates a carbon copy from face to heart
as castles of sand erode.
Love absolves itself of all.
To her, love’s scent is like a rose,
So she stubbornly collects her hypocrisy
and incarcerates her pain
behind the bars of her smile
© Brian Evans for Wisdom’s Quill, January, 2015
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