Paint me whole.
Fill the gaps that my soul begs for.
Swirl & swish the paint tirelessly until I deem myself worthy of this world. So much so that my body is engulfed with color and filled with what I can only hope is delight.
Paint me so that I feel loved.
Paint me so that I feel needed.
Paint me so that I no longer have to bare my crosses.
But as the paint dries I feel constrained. All the masking and molding and recreating of what I once was has limited my movements. I no longer prance with freedom. This proxy has immobilized me. I now feel less than what I was. My scars and wounds, my flaws and flourishes, are no longer with me, but I must tread lighter, speak softer and feel less.
To have masked the wounds and attempted to erase my own depth is to not appreciate the moments that have made me into what I am.
Everyone wants to be painted to feel the power. Until the power seeps deeper into the skin and the rot happens from the inside out.
To deny your imperfections is to breed the cancer of your own soul.
So don't paint yourself.
Don't chase the ideals that were carved by broken men and story tellers of an obscured future.
Burn your wounds deep into the chasms of your being and show them off to whoever asks. Because that is true power.