I Painted

I hear words like, “loser” and “you don’t deserve it (love),” and then I realize I’m waking up every day questioning my worthiness as a companion:

One day my ambitions told me I could paint, paint with acrylic on rigid, crisp awning cloth. I sought to create a profile of a woman with a flowing mane that framed her face and ran to the edges of the canvas. Simple and not anything more than cliché.

Fresh paint is amazing stimuli. Thick like butter and incredibly vibrant. Even the black popped out with subtle midnight silver. I was ridiculous with excitement. Steadying my wrist, I dabbed on black, and caressed the canvas with one curvaceous attempt. There she was staring to the right…with a pair of gnarled lips. So I figured I could distract the mistake by covering the deformity of the woman’s mouth with extensions of her brown locks. Before I knew it, I was painting a tropical flower, and then field grass, and then a pine tree with apples. The field grass mixed with the brunette, which then mixed with the yellow highlights of the flower. Until, I sat back from my hopes and peered at the bird shit green muck before me.

How long did I paint this picture before it was distorted beyond improvement? True story.

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