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.
Copyright © Ichha Ghosh | Year Posted 2025
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