A Madwoman.

I figure I don't paint anything. And that it is either white and blank to symbolize my craziness and need to possibly be locked up in a straightjacket due to my "crazy love" for this guy I still love madly, my first love, at 18, who I haven't seen since 2003 during that fateful long ass ride on a filthy Greyhound bus 33 hours back to Virginia from Kansas. We both knew it was over. Our last kiss was a pitiful representation of a love story over. One of such hope, destroyed by distance and mental illness (mine).

Or it could be red. Just red. Painted over the entire thing. A bright, crimson, blood red. Red for love, or red for blood. Because love that intense, love that would die for the person, love that bleeds over into life 14 years later, is nothing short of mad.

I am a pathetic madwoman who may truly never, ever, ever love like that again.

But if I never love again, I consider it joy to have had my first and only love be this man. A ruggedly handsome, broody and brilliant Hispanic poet. One that would turn my life upside own in the best way.

White or red. Crazy or excessive/obsessive. That is what my love means. And as unhealthy as it is...

I wouldn't change it for the world. It is a part of my story. And I will honor it.