A bare canvas erected on an unsteady easel,
the artist dipped her broad-bristled brush
into the palette and smeared me with paint.
Each stroke became more agitated than the last
as the painter tried to cover my imperfections,
invisible to the untrained eye, but obvious to her.
When what others saw was a blank slate, she saw
only exposed disappointment that no amount
of coats of paint could ever be able to conceal.