I am hanging up photos in my mind,
holding them high and paying respect
for all the tiny details that came together
to create these snapshots of a life.
They are pictures of the past and present
that now more than ever
explain who I am.
They do not define me anymore.
I define them.
But I see you glaring,
teeth gritted, fists clenched,
because you want me to be
what you want me to be;
nothing more and nothing less.
You fashion yourself the artist
and I suppose I'm the canvas,
but what you fail to notice
is the fact that there is
already a vivid portrait,
what may one day be a masterpiece,
painted intricately upon me.
You want to paint over it,
make it better,
make it perfect.
But I can tell you with certainty
that another coat of paint
will suffocate me.