What fucking idiots we were . I showed him the painting the next morning . ‘ Do I really look like that !’ he laughed , ‘ I hate it .’
On the night he died , I locked his portrait in the boat house , along with all my other paintings . I despised my art after that . The colours , the textures , the mistakes , everything . It wasn ’ t my art . It was Lily ’ s art before the fall .
I couldn ’ t stand the thought of people coming across his portrait . He was mine . My own . I ’ d lose myself in a fit of rage at the thought of others finding it . Strangers peering into the memory behind it . Following the brush strokes and finding the feelings swimming in the pigments .
Studying my heart . Stealing my heart . So , I locked my heart away in the boat house .
~.~