she sketches beauty.

1

Composing pieces in the third person was always easier, safer. It detached me from the scenes of my own undoing: my miseries, my downfalls, and my shame. I could observe these pictures with a feigned persona, with the wisdom and retrospect of an unharmed bystander, instead of a fragile girl trying to pick up the endless pieces. I, on one cold and lonely night, realized that I must own my stories, give life and claim to them with the word ‘I.’ The only way to heal from these was to write, was to give declaration to my silence. Often, I place myself into my rapes and attacks as a distant voice or material object merely strolling by. It is only recently that I inserted myself as a bold and audacious voice, as a loud-mouthed, spirited teenager screaming her agonies to all before her. I do not know what all of this means, but I do know, in all my pieces, her story is my story – and so it goes:2

I do not draw often, although I am told I have ‘potential’ to be ‘developed’ by ‘practice.’ I always thought art was art, regardless of talent, if it was straight from the heart. I am naïve because I believe in the beauty of all human beings. 3

I drew a face of a man without knowing who he was or why he was depicted in my brain. He had a big, thick nose and endless eyes. I sat for a while peering into his charcoal eyes, trying to figure out where he began and where the madness ended. I crumbled up the paper and threw it against the wall. I had no real reason; it just seemed like something a staggering artist would do in a fit of rage. However, I contained no rage, just emptiness.4

Sometimes I like to fill in emotion where there is none. I like to choose to bold and big emotions for weak and meager times, like that drawing. It was befitting to be melodramatic in a four-sided room with cold walls and bitter paintings and the echo of my sighs. I felt so devious then. I am a paradox to even myself.5

Yet even when I insert emotion, I still remain impassive. I could write about the color of the walls or the laces of my shoes, bright pink with elephants, but it is useless. Raw emotion is what catches the prey, but I do not know much about anything these days.6

I am tired and useless.7

Today I picked up a magazine and saw the face of the deceased-pope draping the cover. I am not religious, but I spent three hours detailing the lines of his face.8

When I stared at the finished product – peering back at me was an established man, perhaps residing now with his God, who did not judge me but saw me as I am.9

Call me crazy, but I never felt so beautiful.10