She started it all over again.
Though she knew it won’t turn out to be good.
Now, she stares at that thing lying in front of her.
Why can’t she make it, she thinks, makes it to the end.
Or is this the end? It has to be.
She can’t keep doing this over and over again.
It has to end. Should it?
Looking at her hands covered in blood-red,
she swears she won’t do it again.
She gets upholding that chair, again.
Again she has to wipe that stain clear.
Why does she have to, always, hold that chair?
Cursing herself she washes her hands in the sink
White ceramic fills up with red.
Red, they say, the colour of love. Seriously?
They should really look at that mess.
She dries her hand, wipes the chair.
Stains on the floor. All over. Ugh! Again!
She takes the mop and mops the stains away.
She is tired, tired of all this urge of having things perfect!
“Try to love that imperfection”, she tells herself.
Try and try more. But she doesn’t feel like doing it.
All over again.
With a sore sigh, she looks out of the window.
Lilies are looking at her, she feels, they are always cognizant.
Yet they never judge her, just look at her innocently. Rather invitingly.
They are telling her not to give up. Give up on her love so soon.
And she starts it all over again.
She lays another creme white sheet. Takes a deep breath.
Sweeps a fine and smooth stroke dipped in blood red.