I was once a full sheet of paper. Perhaps not the most colourful sheet, but a full sheet nevertheless. A nice size, too. Not grotesquely large, but not waifish (as far as width goes, since paper is naturally thin- I can only wish the same were true for me).
I’m not a clean slate, however. I have been marked up by previous friends, lovers, and my only true relationship. Some have lingered longer around the canvas, painting intricate things upon me. Others rush by and splatter paint – no, throw a can of paint- at me. I took what they gave me with patience, and it didn’t concern me how they treated the canvas. I had no respect for myself, so I let everyone else show respect in their own way. If painting me black was how they wanted to show me that I was appreciated, then so be it.
They were all the same, individual artists working on a collective work without communicating with each other.
What they may or may not realize is that this work is being ripped apart this past week. Every dab of paint they brushed, swirled, spread, carved into me is disappearing into oblivion.
It is not me doing the tearing; it is another artist or band of artists.
My defense mechanisms are being broken down and ignored. Even my selfishness isn’t saving me this time. These artists are finding ways to dance around the easel on which I sit and finding other ways to destroy me. They are devilish, saying things behind me that I can’t hear or soft whispers that lead me to only guess.
Truths, half-truths, and lies all mixed together and spoken as one. They are understood to be the same by the people that hear them. I am helpless; what am I to do, I am merely a canvas to be painted.
I sit and watch another part of me fall to the ground. I look down at myself and what lies beneath me, thinking silently. I ask myself how long this can keep going on for? And I wonder if anyone is going to be able to pick up the pieces and slap them back onto this canvas.
I am torn.