yesterday I painted a rose
to prove to myself that I was capable of creating beauty
my paintbrush dipped in crimson danced over the white paper
as I painted an ugly caricature
I looked at my painting full of hatred -
the same way I often look at myself
and wet the creation with my tears, trying to make the paper pure again
you took the painting from my trembling hands and kissed it
you told me you loved the painting
and I realised I loved you
