Paint A Story

Many people express themselves through numerous ways. Collections growing as more things come within their grasp, brushes gliding gracefully across the creamy white colored canvas, pens scrawling rapid letters on the lined paper, or anything to their heart’s content. One of my ways of expression is to scrawl letters on the lined paper, but I have another way that fully expresses who I am. I have painted before. But I have not glided the brush on the canvas, or even on paper for that matter. In fact, I’ve never used a paint brush to paint anything. My “brush” was a silvery savior that, in the end, ruined all. It glistened under the light as I pulled it into full view. The silver sharpness was pressed to my pasty colored skin and began gliding on it. Crimson red paint began flowing over the pasty color of my skin. My paint was like a color too perfect to create with other colors. More and more paint was made as more and more strokes were done. My body is my canvas and my scars are my artwork. I have painted my body with the marks of truth. Truth of sadness, agony, and hidden sorrows. Truth of my past, who I was, and who I am. Truth of everything. I have painted a story on my body.