I don't even understand this one, so it's okay if no one does.

“How did you get like this?” he asks. And I’m not sure if his question stems from curiosity or concern.

I can’t even look him in the eye as I collect the answer inside my head, in fear that he may see through the fact that I am only pretending.

“My life these last few months has been like a painting. A lot of thought has been put into it, people have stared at me trying to figure out what I mean and I have been shaped carelessly by the hands of others. Some strokes were soft and careful—almost caring, and others were rough and inconsistent. I became like this because someone painted outside of the lines. They didn’t care enough to stay inside.”

He looked at me like I was crazy, but I did not expect him to understand. After all, he himself had become one of the faults on the canvas of my heart.

“The artist had left me unfinished and with too much contrast. Before I had the chance to become perfect beauty in their eyes, I was given up on and put on display. I was not ready for the critique of someone with an eye for these things and I certainly did not want to be in the show where everyone could stroll by and openly judge me by my mistakes. I wanted to scream at them from my spot in the frame ‘They made me this way! This blunder is not mine.’ But I know they wouldn’t listen, they too have learned that words mean nothing.”

By the look on his face I can see that he is slowly beginning to understand, and the look in his eyes mirror the pain I had once allowed mine to show. Poor guy.

“Yeah, I became this way because I handed someone the tools to shape me. I wet the brush, laid myself out to him and trusted them to allow me my full potential. At first it was great, the brush tickled down my spine softly, and we giggled together. As he stared at me I could see the reflection in his eyes of what I was becoming, and it was beautiful. But then the sun went down on us and his eyes began to stray. I was neglected, and the paint got lumpy and dry. So when he did press, it was harder and sloppy and the tickling turned to pain. And I couldn’t see my reflection because his eyes were closed to me. So I did the only thing I could thing to do, I had to survive. I didn’t even flinch as the bristles moved painfully across me. I didn’t even flinch when the comfort of his humming voice turned to a dusty silence. And when he left me up there, alone, incomplete and still dripping from the spill of black… I didn’t even flinch.”

I watched the words soak in and the careful response leak from his lips, “So… they just used you, and left you there. And now the colors that were once bright and bounced off of the simpleness are mixed together, to this color? The way you are now?”

“Black, you mean?”

“Yes.”

It was hard for him to accept that. No matter what colors and compliments he tried to mix in, it would only make me messier.

“I think it’s time to start over.”