This coat is still fresh. It hasn't dried completely yet and it smudges and swirls under the pressure of prodding fingers yet to be believed or understood. I would have liked to see you when you were first made standing cold and untainted, but no one keeps that kind of innocence for long. You've been painted over so many times so many coats. Some of them are delicate an airbrush of experience barely noticeable if you go chipping away with too much enthusiasm. Others are thick, heavy, dark and muddled, confused, they stain down deep thrown on all at once a slop drunk family letting buckets fly unlidded. I can tell about those the ones that didn't dry smooth and formed misshapen globs of character, and regret, that bump and scrape, against the outside world against its professional counter parts. That's what makes you whole that's what I admire. When I look close and run my fingers over your painting of personality the bits that are constantly bending and moving the way they peel and crack and let me see all those lost layers you've painted over to keep a secret. I don't want to wash this abused collage away. I want to spread and muddle it all together, and use your hues your pallet of pity and perfection to help paint over those secret parts of me that I don't want to be found either.