Canvas

I hate it when you look at me. For every time you do, you look down upon me. Isn't that a pretty little girl to pity? Wouldn't she just be more beautiful without that bruise upon her face, mysteriously shaped like a hand?

It was at times like those, when I saw your eyes wandering down onto this almost worthy creature that I'd wish myself to be that much better. That much more pure, that much less fragile so that I could hold up under the scrutiny you rained down on me. You said you were joking when you said you couldn't bear to look at me, that I simply misheard you when you said if I wasn't naked I might as well not be in your sight as all. Whoops. It's clear that you have no imperfections, that I was just lucky to bask in the presence of you and all of your glory, if only for a moment.

Yet as I stand before the mirror in the gym I now call a second home, I can find myself content. I'm not perfect, nor would I ever intend to be. A stretch mark on my right arm was the price I paid for being able to bench more than the guys. The scar on my left eye was the down payment for a lifetime of learning that not all boys can keep their hands to themselves.

My body tells a story. A story you could never read, for you only valued me in the dark. There will always be more room for bruises that I'll laugh off and scars that I'll carry in more place than one. My body will never be perfect, nor would I ever want it to be. Who wants to look at a blank canvas?

This canvas is covered in all shapes, colors and marks. You never understood why I always laughed when you pointed out the scratch on my knee. I laughed then because it told the story of rolling down the hill with my girlfriends and accidentally hitting a tree. I laughed then because the scar on the other knee told the story of a six year old me spending two days teaching myself to rollerblade. I laugh now because they were stories of trial and tribulation. I laugh now because the stories always had the same ending--I picked myself up long enough to crack a smile. . . .I laugh now because while you've thrown more than your fair share of putrid paint on this canvas, you'll never get to hear catch in my throat as I tell the story of how they got there.

I'll never give you the satisfaction of seeing the scars you've left upon me. The one on the back of my head from the first time you got drunk around me. The permanent thumb print on the inside of my wrist from the last time I let you get drunk around me. The stretch mark on my tummy from the five pounds of guilt I ate after you left. You'll never hear me explain the reason why my nose is slightly crooked, or witness me explaining the cautionary tale behind the mark on my cheek.

Go ahead and look down on me. I'm short. That is the only reason I'll ever let you look down on me again. My five foot two stature won't change--it's permanent, just like the colors you've added to my canvas of a body. The unfortunate part of it all isn't that my skin will never be perfect, but rather that you've now realized you'll never be either. I'll never grow vertically, nor will you ever grow emotionally.

Please look down on me. You're right, we'll forever be linked. . .by a twelve year old. What, you ask? It's what defines us now. For I will forever look like a twelve year old and you will forever act like one.