Why can I not just paint myself like a picture,
reveal myself surely, stroke by stroke,
and let the colors brighten with every layer?

To unravel myself,
the same way that I untwist the contents of my dreams
and lay them down in paint,
would be a dream itself.
I have not the patience to wait
so I make haste,
for I wish to meet myself upon the threshold
of who I am,
of who I was,
and who I always intended to become.
Three separate skins I have worn.
Three separate selves I must reconcile with.

In my eager state, I fail to see,
for it's an easy truth to miss:
painting can be fast, yes, but it can be slow,
and it often requires the full intent of a humble prayer.
To unveil oneself layer by fragile layer
is already like creating a masterpiece.
I have already painted myself,
just like a picture,
just like the images I saw in my dreams.

How blessed I am that He still evolves,
how lucky that He has not yet been satiated,
for within his hunger for growth I find the inspiration to paint myself all over again.

Speaking to my own self,
I almost said aloud, "I feel happy."

I paused, to give it breath, but the word happy just couldn't come out--
No, couldn't isn't quite the word.
Maybe wouldn't?
Or shouldnt?
Yes, happy could not come out,
and happy would not come out,
because I was not sure it even should.
Instead, I said, just to myself,
"I feel... so full of life,"
and in that moment, I understood.

I actually can't recall the last time I spoke life into myself with just my unguided voice.
The instinct to utter such a sentiment has long been lost on me.
Heck, I couldn't even say I loved my own self without it being a conscious, practiced, very carefully crafted choice.
I have to plan my own self-affirmations because they do not come naturally.
I had begun to wonder as of late if hope still exists to me,
or perhaps I am just too broken to recognize it anymore.
Perhaps I am just too empty to still feel warmth,
even with the sun beaming down upon my face.
I want to smile back, but... can I?
Or have I already been erased?

Happy never did fit the bill for me because it never really meant anything.
It just feels like such a hollow word.
Committing to chasing it was like choosing to chase a ghost, and what's worse...
I was chasing a ghost because I simply didn't know I had a choice in the first place.
Now, though, I know what I didn't know I already knew.
I really just crave to be filled to the brim with life.
I want to feel,
and I want to be felt,
as sure as I feel the sun on my face,
because that feels like it means something to me.

"In that way, I feel happy," he said aloud,
speaking to his own self.

I should put this hunger at bay.
I should do what it takes to keep it away.
Yet, I am powerless to deny.
I am enslaved by the prowess of your eyes.

A simple hum lets me know that I have been seen,
and a brush of the spiritual kind defines my wanting,
and you do not leave me needing.
You do not leave me astray.

It feels like there are oceans between you and I.
I want you, a wanting burrowed deep inside.
I always did, a need heady enough to deprive.
I wanted you long before you were in my life.