frida kahlo once wrote

in a letter to diego rivera,

"i am left knowing that I love you

more than my own skin.

and though you may not love me as much,

you do love me a little, don't you?

if this is not true, i will always be hopeful that it could be."


my cracked marble pythoness

felt her agonies as a fire in her belly

stoked by infidelity and acid rain tragedy

carried her canvases on broken back and sagging shoulders

to each clandestine corner of her hollow chest

spent years searing masterpieces onto the back of her hands--

she was her own greatest work.


loved and misused by a man who was no sooner monogamous

than he was of godlike sentiment

larger than olympus, withered under her calloused palms

she did not get to feel his remorse soak through her aching bones

i do not think she would have wanted to;

frida was too ferocious a woman to let the fumbling speech of a guilty man

force her hand to forgiveness.


diego's final remark after frida's passing was,

"july 13, 1954 was the most tragic day of my life.

i had lost my beloved frida forever.

too late now i realized that

the most wonderful part of my life

had been my love

for frida."