She painted on her face, as I did mine. She watched me like a child. My style confused her and yet made her watch me more. Each stroke I made, every detail, down to the last combing of my eyebrows, it left her awestruck. I was a canvas that had come to life in her eyes. The joy that I brought, made her shift in thought. I handed her my painting tools and I left the vainity. I didn't feel the need anymore. I had completed this canvas for today. The next was sure to come and I'd paint once more. But for now. I let my face speak. I covered my flaws and my facade was doing me well. What mask should I wear today? No one sees the real anymore. We're the walking canvas. Paint your picture on me.
 Made27 · Wed Feb 02, 2005 @ 10:51pm · 0 Comments |
