Emotional Torture.

What I've become.

I crumble, shedding pieces of my inmost soul in the mirror. I try to pick up the remaining parts, filling the gaps in me with gold to keep them together. I'm lying to the reflection again, telling her that she is capable of being art.

People say a masterpiece is supposed to grant you peace once you look at it, the kind of art that makes the heart flutter. This reflection isn't art to me. She isn't pleasing to look at it, and a glance at her only makes me slump my shoulders in dolor and defeat. 

I don't recognize her, this could never be the image I painted. It's a fraud taking her place, a knock-off I wish to rip apart. Yet, it is too late to change the colors on this canvas, the people have already seen what a faulty image I am.

I never saw myself as irascible, but my hands are covered in flaming red paint, and it burns at my finger tips, it screams at me that I could never view it as a color of love, but that I just left a blazing red mark on every loved one of mine.

I have no tools to erase this mark, no one teaches you how to reverse such a mistake. My pencils and eraser pity me as I stare at the scenery I've created. I messed up once again, and this time it might be too late to start fresh.