Frida, when you found out your husband was having sex with another woman, you stole her away from him.
I discovered your paintings when I was 15, the same year I found Neruda.
You remind me that I don't have to be typical to be beautiful, that not everyone needs understand my art.
But I am over the kind of love that plagued you your whole life. I am over the run around. I know that's easier said than done. Diego didn't love you so much as he loved the power, and I will never give a man that kind of luxury. Least not again.
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