Painted Upon

Like a canvas they pour colors on me, choking me with the weight. They make “art” on my bare skin like it wasn’t beautiful on its own. They glide their brushes on my face to smoothen my lines, leaving me crinkled on the inside. They turn me prettier with each touch but I can feel the ugliness of this cover. I look in the mirror to see my beautiful self but a stranger stares back at me. She is perfect, far from my flawed beauty. She is art and I am just a canvas, painted upon. Still blank, always blank…