Frida caught me plucking my eyebrows, pursed her lips, and smacked
the tweezers from my hand, kissed my fingers, leaned her forehead
into mine, the bone of our skulls hard and unyielding. Our noses
were mashed, cartilage more forgiving than the artist, her slender

brush made from tiny hairs I’d discarded. She pushed me down
on the tile floor and started painting me back into myself. I gave her
tears for watercolor. She licked her thumb to smudge dark from beneath
my eyes. Her strokes careful, then reckless, covering me in my

own words, sponging yellow sun down my throat and helping
it burst, orange fire to red flame above one breast. She left her hand
prints on my shoulder blades, the swirls of her palms branding me my
own property, her teeth ripping open a package of paint before she was gone.

She left me wine stained and lip slick, blood turned to thick black ink,
notebook splayed on the floor, my broken tweezers in the sink.