The art of a broken heart
She kept it hidden well. Underneath her flesh and bones and behind the designer clothes, there it lay. Still beating, still pumping blood through her otherwise faultless body. But it was not as it once was.
The smile expertly painted onto her lips with the most cheerful of red lipsticks was constant and for all to see. Every person who had the pleasure of meeting her knew it never left her face. It always inspired a smile in return. That smile, it was a good distraction.
Men would come and men would go. She never allowed herself to make it last with any of them. It was to no fault of their own. None could ever put a finger on what happened. It just ended. Cordially, friendly and on good terms. It wasn’t meant to be was the logical conclusion.
It was all an illusion. A way of protecting what was left of her. It was a skill she had become an expert in. The façade she had built over time had been carefully put together. No one could know or it would bring down the rest of her world. She would not let that happen.
But inside her own four walls, when she shed her outer skins, when not another single soul was present and it was only her and the reflection in the mirror, that’s when she let it out. Her heart. Broken and still bleeding from the moment it had been ripped to pieces. Aching with every beat. But she didn’t allow it to heal or to recover. She kept the wounds open. They were a reminder and a warning to never give herself in that way again.
She let it bleed willingly until the break of a new day when she applied her mask again and stepped back out into the world, with her heart locked away behind her smile. She was an artist and just like with most artists her art was inspired by pain…
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