At times I envision a painter
Strokes, lines, shades and maybe some dots
I envision a set of lips
Beautiful, closed, and full of amazing travesties
I would outline them in brown, the shade of her skin, embedded with history
A connection of dots on her face, sprinkled unevenly like the loves of her life
How would I paint her?
With strokes filled with anger? Strength? Pain? Passion? Love?
As time and experiences come in waves,
I see my face in hers
A Latin woman filled with common insecurities
Constantly being victimized by society and by me
A set of eyes, small, yet filled with wonder
Watching others as they watch my every move
Lips just as full and just as stern
Waiting for the right moment to separate
Dots representing all aspects of the life I’ve lived,
The things I’ve seen and the people I’ve felt
Attempting to one day make sense of it all
Still so young, I have a lot to learn
But age does not determine what comes my way
And what comes my way, does not determine my path
So, how would I paint me?
As I am ? Or as I want to be?
-Huntington Park
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