She walks in slow steps and looks at everything with great analysis and caution. In her expression you can read her entire life story, and she doesn't shed a single tear.
It's hard to ignore her, or thoughts about her, when a pink veil of sweet scent is trailed around the place. In the rare occasions in where she opens up, it is a light of pink that swells up your heart with empathy and concern.
Her paintings are a mix of grotesque black and illuminating magenta. Humble, quiet, but nevertheless, beautiful works.
The painter, of which I am unworthy of. In these days, "of late it is hard to step outside," much less approach anybody that seems warm. You can see regret, disgust, and annoyance tattooed on my forehead like a large "L." Detoxify, ignore, forget, forgive, and relive from guilt are the wash I use to scrub this off, but my entitlements and obligations still take the best of me.
Her invitation into her home might cure this. Because if someone takes an interest in me, how much of an abusive monster can I possibly be, right?
