The painter

the paintbrush is but an extension of her arm,
the canvas an extension of herself

It is slowly but precisely decorated
With her most inner emotions

What appears to simply be a dash of red in the corner
the manifestation of her anger towards the parents that scoffed at her dreams

The brown circle that seems to be haphazardly placed in a random corner
the bland hair color that she had despised and had dyed the first chance she had, and kind of misses now

What is interpreted as nothing but a curved green lines
represents her jealously towards her perfect sister, who was everything she was not

The black shape consuming a large chunk of the canvas
a mixture of her anger and hatred, locked away and disguised for years

A solitary white shape contrasts the adjacent black shape
her enduring hope that clung to life even in her darkest days

Different shapes, colors, and designs dance across the canvas, each telling their own story

The finished product resembles her better than an portrait ever could
all her hopes and fears recognized, her secrets told, and her bottled up emotions expressed

“What’s that?” her silent reverie is interrupted by the arrival of her no longer estranged sister, peering curiously over her shoulder

Past troubles resolved she simply smiles and replies, “Me.”