–  Caravaggio, The Fortune Teller, 1594   – Draft #1 I was the aristocrat, you the fortune teller. Naivety shown through my longing gaze, for I craved an intimacy and understanding  so explicably intrinsic , Caravaggio fought in my creation “you were easier to paint,” he said the look in your eye memorable of sightings untold by women,  reoccurring in their truths  ever since man began walking this earth.  I ignored their words.  “This one’s different,” I said.  then you had taken every last drop  of moisture — life out of my side of our canvas: my skin shriveled  eyes baggy bones brittle tongue white and cracked   my mind lost in…

Dear You, I laid your clothes in the bin—the fabric rough against my palms.“I don’t love you anymore,” I whispered,and still, my hands trembled. For months I scrubbed my skin raw,trying to wash away the memoryof your touch—the kind that bruised instead of held,the kind that took instead of asked. You told me it was normal.You told me I saved you.I was young enough to believethat love meant surrender. I see now how small you made me—how silence became survival,how I mistook fear for devotion.When I finally left,I carried your ghost like a scar. But healing came slowlyin the laughter of my sisters,the warmth of my mother’s arms,the mirror that…