Confused Heart

The heart tears itself apart trying to understand its own pain. Every crack goes out in search of answers, but reason is not enough when it comes to love.
Confused Heart represents that inner process in which some emotions find no explanation: they can only be passed through.
The forms intertwine, break apart, and flow again. The reds, oranges, and pinks concentrate the emotional intensity, while the blues and lighter tones introduce pauses and contrasts within that inner movement.
The wound does not disappear: it is transformed. It changes shape and color, becomes movement, and finds another way to live.
For your catalogue, I would especially use "Expressionist abstraction of a symbolic character," because the work starts from a recognizable emotion —the wounded and confused heart— but expresses it through gestures, curves, color, and non-realistic forms.

Confused Heart

Free will left me thirsting
for what was a mirage in the desert.
Through your story,
I learned my own and knew you were only passing through.
I feel the affection that still endures,
and it will be my sustenance in this season of sanity.
I thread together the clean and sincere memories
where there was neither deceit nor betrayal.

Nothing guaranteed me a pleasant letting go.
I misread the fine print of our pact:
"Not to hurt each other, so as to make it last."
If the couch could speak, it would tell me nothing is missing,
it witnessed the intertwined hands and the final gaze.
I searched for the origin of my pain,
and in the corners, I saw a little girl, inept and pretentious.
I shook off the mold of immaturity
and I untied the knots in my throat.

Time to grow.
The reflection gave me back self-love
and I understood that friendship, and something more,
were hard to conjugate.

Time to learn.
One of the two of us would move first.
The pieces were looking to fit together in order to dwell.

Time to heal.
The challenge dwelled in the unexpected
and turning around I closed off the footprints of the past.

Time to leave.
The climb was steep,
my feet were trembling.
I checked the backpack of wisdom,
an unwelcome conversation
drowned the joy about to be born.
Excuse me, silence in defense,
I was afraid of being heard.
My ears held onto the illusion, stammering:
—You should have known me.

It doesn't matter anymore: —I know who I am
and what I am capable of.