Know that recurring feeling of wanting to crawl in a hole and die? Multiply that by a hundred – no, a thousand times – and you’ll just begin to grasp what I’m going through every single day. Mascara, eyeliner, shadow, blue, green, brown, all kinds of eyes gazing at me, scowling away. It was downright exhausting. To have people staring intently with so much hate and disdain. Pointing, jabbing, laughing, hating; all in a day. Subjected to all kinds of experiments and different levels of attention, the canvas was just a glorified me. Blasted fraud! Smoother and whiter didn’t make him any better. But that didn’t stop him from being all
condescending, did it?
An empty canvas. That’s exactly what I ended up being at the end of each scowling session. From all the body art to the complicated experiments to the cuss words the lads sneaked in, an empty canvas was all I ended up being at the end of the day. Sad, but if that was what it took to stop being the center of attention, I’d take it happily. Downright exhausting, I say. Across the room, she hangs. My only hope in a hopeless world. Screaming colour in a black-and-white world. An abnormality on the even wavelength of my life. A heart rendering ray of light in a dark and endless night. She was everything and more.
I dream about her; not a room away, but right next to me. No benches, no walls, nothing between us. And just when I try to speak, I wake. Sure enough, there she still is, oblivious to my very existence. Not next to me, but a room apart. Not nothing, but every possible circumstance between us. I wonder if she cared about what people thought about me, her and us. I wonder sometimes. An empty canvas me. An empty canvas her. That was all we were and all we could ever hope to be. An empty canvas.