As I look at the painting, I can feel her, Kahlo. I can feel her misery. In her face and in mine: resent. When I see her tears my reaction feels somewhat abandoned. Her face has a blank expression; a feeling of emptiness resides over me except for the warm sensation of tears flooding my face whose only cause is a bodily response, uncontrolled by my conscious. I should be feeling sadness, but all I feel is contempt, a hateful lust for revenge? No, not revenge, for escape. I feel claustrophobic, like I cannot escape the laughter and artificial gazes of the cupids mockingly swinging, using my heartless chest as a pivot. Again the heartbreak emerges but not in the sad and pitiful way, rather in distress and in agony, as if someone had carelessly ripped out my heart.