She wakes with tears (which is the way she slept).
She washes them off.
She places on layer after layer.
Hiding bags, proof of sleepless nights.
She steps out the door, locking it behind her.
No one has seen the inside.
Inside her house, it's a mess.
Canvases and papers everywhere.
Paint on the floor, ink splattering the tables and easles.
Drawings of a face cover the paper.
While paintings of another coat canvas.
No one has seen this mess.
She likes it that way.
She smiles at every one.
No one would ever guess
Her heart was broken, then her mind.
One man stomped her heart.
The other, her sense of security.
So at night she paints him.
During the day she draws him.
Both men she sees everywhere.
Never letting people close.
Never letting them see.
Then
She invites a friend.
Hands her tea as she studies the walls.
Whispers she needs help.
They agree.
So the paintings, the papers, the art of months is piled in the front yard.
Together they pour gasoline.
Together they light it.
The smoke is carried off by the wind but scars still remain.
She doesn't wake up with tears anymore (though she still sometimes falls asleep with them).
She doesn't place layer after layer.
Now it's just one.
She doesn't have to work so hard to hide that she didn't sleep, because sometimes she did.
She locks the door still, but behind it are paintings of different things.
Things she finds beautiful, instead of sad.
Her friend admitted feelings.
She eventually gave them back.
Now together, they often paint.
Now she wakes up to a smile (which she falls asleep to).
Now she places hardly a layer.
She doesn't even have to try to hide.
Everything's already in the open.
She still locks the door.
Still paintings hang.
This time, something more precious still sleeps.
She who's dreaming of butterflies
