Frida Kahlo

I am the steel corset and creased slacks

I am the pain disguised in paint

vibrant palettes bled by turpentine

on drunken tirades, in fits of boredom

I am the bewilderment of fading beauty

the obedience of grieving

the self portraits, naked

laden with strangely conflicted expressions

a phantom on canvas, the unseen genius

agave agony represented in exotic birds

dreary bathtubs, twisted gurneys

miscarriages and monkeys

I am a marigold in the shadow of murals

that garner an undeserving praise

scenes that hold no meaning to me, personally

I am the heavy veins of palm leaves

the floral crowns in lieu of halos 

the landscapes drenched in echoes of Dali

the catholic funeral mood, pregnant with potential

vigils kept over easels, volatile in earth tones

appreciated in death, for the beautiful ways

the brutality felt in life was expressed

a. duncan, 2018



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"She would fill endless notebooks with stories about the characters in her life, their impressions, words, friends, lovers, inspirations, fantasies. She spent her days dreaming up worlds where they fit together in visions; the if only, the never again, the someday. Those who knew her best would describe her as a creature with a clear and sometimes painful sense of herself; furious with ideas and convictions, to a point that she frightened love away with discernment and a relentless strength of character."

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