Frida Kahlo is staring at me from the head of my bed. Her self-portrait is taped in lilac at the corners, her flower crown balanced on her head like a bouquet. She makes me want to be spectacular
– she’s my dreamcatcher, and right now she’s looking pretty disinterested.
My bed is my cushioned hell. It’s where I sit to be glared at by Frida, to crumple my posture and crack my spine. Yawn and weigh the justice of my eyelids.
It took me a day to notice the barbed wire circling her neck, and the hand hanging from her ear. She just looked so pretty, so tired, amongst my pillows and through my sleepy eyes.