I can paint anyone - but never myself

I’ve painted faces I’ve never even seen before.

People who don’t know I exist, and yet—I capture them with reverence. With patience. With detail so precise it feels like worship.

Because when I paint others, I see them.

I notice the curve in their lip when they’re unsure of a compliment—the shade of their under-eyes when they’ve been pretending to sleep. I see the soft things. The broken things. And I paint them like they matter.

Because they do.

Everyone else always seems to matter.

But when I paint myself…

I can’t do it.

I sit in front of the canvas, brush trembling in my hand, and I try to outline the shape of my own jaw, my eyes, my mouth—but something cracks.

The line slips.
The hand shakes.
The paint smears.

And suddenly, I’m not painting.
I’m destroying.

Because somewhere along the way, I learned this:

I am not someone worth capturing.

I ruin my own face on purpose.

Because how do you paint someone you hate?

How do you find light in a face that’s been rejected more times than it’s been loved?

How do you draw the eyes of someone who’s always watching others be chosen, while they are left behind?

How do you honor a mouth that never says what it needs—because it’s too busy making sure everyone else is okay?

You don’t.

You smear the paint.
You slash the brush across your cheeks.
You make the eyes crooked, too wide, too dark, too wrong.

Because that's how you see yourself: wrong.

And I have given parts of myself so freely.
Sacrificed without ever being asked.
Softened every edge just to be someone who could be chosen.

But no matter how much I give, no matter how empty I become to make room for someone else’s comfort—

I’m still the one left standing at the end.

Alone.
Unnoticed.
Unpicked.

So maybe I was never good enough to begin with.

That’s why I can’t finish the portrait.

Because it would mean seeing myself.
Not as I want to be—but as I am:

Forgotten.
Flawed.
Soaked in shame I never asked for.

So I ruin it.
Because it’s easier to destroy myself with my own hands than wait for the world to do it again.

And yet… here I am. Still painting.

Because maybe, deep down, I want someone to see the mess and say:

“That’s still you. And you still matter.”

But until that day comes—

I’ll keep painting strangers with care.
And I’ll keep ruining myself with rage.
Because that’s what pain taught me to do.