I did a self-portrait today,

And when I looked at it,

I cried.

 

The girl I painted there,

Was not one I ever thought,

I would be,

When I was younger.

 

I thought I would be happy,

Neatly organized,

Perfectly aligned,

Full of technique,

And brillance……..

 

But no,

My self-portrait was different.

 

 

It had a girl,

With crazy hair,

A freckled nose,

Colors swirled on her skin,

Eyelids,

And cheekbones.

 

The colors like bruises,

Bright,

And strange.

 

And I wondered,

Why I painted myself so.

 

Then words came flooding back,

As if a dam had been broken.

 

Thoughts,

Ideas,

“Friends”,

And words filled my head.

 

But there were not good words,

They were dark words.

 

Bad words.

Horribly words.

And words that were used,

To describe me,

By others who never cared,

To know me beyond my skin.

 

And then I knew,

My self-portrait was so crazy:

I was crazy.

 

I was not going to fit into lines,

Squeeze into techniques,

Or fold myself into harsh shapes.

 

I was going to wild,

Colorful,

Exciting,

Full of brilliance,

And purely myself.

 

So when I painted bruises,

That is ok,

Because we all have,

Wonderfully colorful bruises,

From words spoken behind our backs in halls,

Or to our faces by “friends.”

 

I have bruises from words,

Do you?