you call her art

they painted her backwards, a body half-forgotten by gravity, half-claimed by the red. not blood, but the color of memory when it refuses to fade. her hands— not reaching, but remembering what it felt like to be touched without bruising. there is silk at her thighs, or maybe it’s fog, or maybe it’s the ghost of a wedding dress that never got to say “i do.” red eats everything here. the sheets, the scream caught in her hip, the part of her that once believed a closed door was protection. they say she fell. but look closely: the fall looks like a dance when no one tells you it’s a funeral. her body is a question mark curled around silence. paint runs like a fever. she was once white, but white never stays. not when you’ve been opened. not when you’ve been framed. what do you call a woman who collapses so beautifully that the canvas becomes her coffin and her resurrection at the same time? you call her art.