There was something about her that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying all at once… something in the way she was absolutely comfortable with herself though she was so grossly counter-cultural. Her very being spat in the face of society’s dictations of behavior and appearance and yet there she was, her brilliant smile and the mischievous gleam in her eye an unmistakable middle-finger to mediocrity. I was in awe of her… I both adored and despised her… her presence giving me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I yearned to be exactly like her.

“Stunning self-portrait, my dear” everyone would tell me as I stood beside the result of hours of emotion bleeding into canvas. “Thank you” I would reply with a small, modest smile. No one was the wiser… no one understood; not really. Self portraits are supposed to make you proud and shout to the world that you’re proud of who you are but not mine… all that was left of who I used to be was nothing but paint smeared onto canvas. My self portrait is nothing more than an elaborate tragedy.

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