Untitled, after watching Frida

This is what it says in the post title: a tipsy, untitled poem I wrote a few weeks ago after I'd watched Frida.

Like a mouth with no tongue
Two houses with no bridge between
Eyes looking out on nothing

Llorona
The crying one
White dress stained red
With the failures
Of a revolution
Of a marriage

She painted the internal
Her sometime husband
Painted the world outside

Whose reality carries through?

His plump figures
Carrying flowers
And the weight of the world
Her self-portraits
Carrying pain
Two hearts tied
To one body

And she is so beautiful
And this wine is like sawdust
And blood on my tongue
A taste I can inhabit
Not just swallow

I would taste you, the sweat and the salt and the scars

So brilliant, the red and the blue
The courtyard of her
Father’s house, and that fat
Bastard, so bright and so
Charming, and I hate him
For her. But I guess
He loved her in his way.

I love you in my way.
I want the thick wine taste
As I kiss you, the weight
Of it all.