My Artwork, Maria

Maria stared at me with her big, brown eyes.

They were calm, not a hint of anger nor glee; the perfect resemblance of a perfect, blank canvas. And such, like a perfect, blank canvas, those eyes waited for my words to paint emotions into them. Maria was always the artist between the two of us. But now she looked at me as if I were Da Vinci, and she were my Monalisa, waiting to happen, all complacent and a tad bit broken.

I hated this.

Maria was supposed to be adorned with jewel-like smile and a pair of gleaming eyes, staring into my own like they know things we don’t. Maria was supposed to bloom at the sight of people and welcome them with open arms, or a pinch here and now, but never with gloom. Maria was supposed to be red and pink and yellow; radiant with shimmers and good thoughts of others. She was supposed to hug and hit and hold and help and hate and hurt, but —

My Maria was not supposed to be hollow.

And I casted upon my Maria, a dull spotlight of ashen grey; a colour Maria was not supposed to be. And I painted upon my Maria, my sweet, burning red Maria, a complacent smile instead of her bright, curious tingling bell of a laughter.

I hated this.

But what did it matter, when all I could offer was a cup of coffee so bitter, with a pinch of disappointment? Maria didn’t even like coffee! And I knew of apology, but perhaps I was addicted to making my own prophecy. And so, I told me, that what good would be of an apology when the hurt had sunk already? What good would be of an apology when disappointment was all they would see? What would become of an apology if at the end Maria wouldn’t forgive me? But what would become of me, if my Maria forgive me for the things I decided to be?

I hated me.

My Maria was not supposed to be Monalisa, all hollow and complacent.
My Maria was not supposed to be ashen, all grey and perhaps a tad bit broken.
And so, maybe my Maria was not supposed to be mine.