she painted self portraits though every one i saw looked nothing like her, sure the shape of her nose, the sharp arching eyebrow here, the down turned lip there

she would paint hurriedly toss it to the floor to dry as the next began to form on the canvas, yet each one seemed farther removed from the reality of her

we smoked cigarettes while sharing a bottle of wine, her painting grotesque caricatures of herself as i scribbled lines that enhanced all of my shortcomings

then she would yell and rant at me about how the words were slanted and i would tell her the brush strokes were off kilter to the subject in atrocious nuance

she would glare and i would glare as we passed the bottle back and forth in silent disdain while we studied the works of the other with the utmost critical gaze

any moment we would be on the floor as we tore at each other’s clothes in the wet paint smearing the latest masterpieces across our skin and creating something new

then we would lay staring at the ceiling passing the bottle still or a cigarette lost in the next piece that called for us to create as the paint dried across our torsos

she couldn’t see herself as she was even standing in the midst of a hall of mirrors so she sketched what she felt and no goddamned soul can take that away from her

even if she is gorgeous covered in paint smears or bite marks from our most sacred of artful endeavors that shine like plums in the bruised light of our designs