The Canvas

by jillian meharg

I am an artist,

And I am the canvas.

And I paint myself in my words,

My actions,

My thoughts.

I paint myself in bright colors,

Bright mind,

Bright hopes,

Bright dreams.

I paint myself in pinks and yellows and purples and all the colors of the warm and sunny spectrum.

I paint myself in sun and an enchanting cerulean sky.

I paint myself because I am the painter and this is my canvas to do what I want with.

I choose the colors,

And I choose the words,

And I choose the everything.

People compliment the painting, and I don't make anymore changes, for people seem to enjoy it as it is.

But one day I trip.

I trip into a world of hate and bruises.

I trip and the pencils in my hand tear holes through the center of the canvas.

In utter disappointment and embarrassment, I throw the painting into a closet, for it is no longer what it was.

The painting sits in the darkness, and the colors gray.

The words are no longer readable.

The sun and sky are covered with dust of clouds of loneliness.

I am an artist,

And I am a canvas,

But I'm also the girl in the hallway.

The one with the mile-wide grin of straight white teeth.

jThe one always in a group of friends.

I'm the girl who gets stuck in drama,

The one you've heard the rumors about.

They've seen my appearance, my friends, and my grades, and that is enough for them to judge me.

They decide that I'm perfect or just not perfect enough.

I am an artist,

And I am the canvas,

And I'm the girl in the hallway,

But I'm also the girl locked in her mind.

The girl who wants nothing more than to be heard.

The girl who cries for the pain, a bird with clipped wings, to fly out of its prison that is my heart.

The girl who is alone with her thoughts.

They don't see this girl though,

Because she hides behind perfect eyeliner and perfect smile.

Because she has been thrown into a closet, for she is no longer what she was.

She wasn't always like this though.

One time she wore bright colors,

Bright mind,

Bright hopes,

Bright dreams.

And she chose her colors,

Chose her words,

Chose her everything.

But one day she tripped.

She tripped into a world of hate and bruises.

She tripped and the knives in their hands tore holes through the center of her chest.

In utter disappointment and embarrassment, I lock the person I once was into a closet, for that is no longer who I can be.

My colors sit in the darkness of my mind and they gray.

The words I once spoke are lost in the wreckage.

The sun and sky become meager and dull in the dust of the clouds of loneliness.

So don't you dare tell me what I am.

Don't you dare say that I am perfect or not perfect enough.

Because you will never know what's bolted within the closet of my mind.

I am an artist,

And I am the canvas,

And I am the girl in the hallway,

And I am the girl locked in her mind,

And sometimes, I convince myself to unlock the closet door and pull out the canvas,

Pull out who I used to be.

I try to tape, stitch, glue the wounds shut, and little by little, the canvas begins to resemble what it once was.

And I understand that there will still be evidence of the holes, of the marks that will never be truly erased.

There will always be scars,

But the wounds can heal.