Self Portrait

Blue eyes, calculating, observing; never resting for fear I will miss something.   They are my eyes, light blue at the center ringed with dark, almost black blue.  They stare at me, those reflected eyes lined in black eyeliner and they seem to ask me, Who are you? 

Pale skin with teenage blemishes, the skin’s whiteness made stark by dark hair and black clothing.  There are some who call it pasty, unhealthy looking–I do not agree.  It’s my skin.  Let me decide what it looks like.

Dark, chestnut brown hair falls straight, only marred by layers from the last hair cut.  It frames my face when let alone, but my annoying habit of running my hands through it tosses it every which way to give me a slightly frazzled look.  It falls, shining and straight.

My hands shake in panic, the chipped black nail polish becoming slightly blurred in my fingers’ movement.  Writer’s hands:  constantly scarred with ink from a page.  Nails are uneven; sometimes from breaking, sometimes because my old habit of worrying them with my teeth comes back.  But they put my thoughts on the paper, on the screen; they hold the pen that makes my imagination real, or as real as it gets.

Not tall.  Not skinny.  Apparently, according to the nice woman at Arby’s, I have “junk in my trunk.” While I don’t look like Kiera Knightly, I love the way my legs look in jeans, and the way my torso looks in tank tops.  People may think I could stand to lose some weight, but for now, I’m content.

My face is like an oval–not bad, but no real defining attributes.  Black Ray-Ban prescription eyeglasses sit on my nose, the lenses enhancing my sight.  They are like my shield, protecting me from the real world.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, frantically, my hands are still shaking.  I’m alive.