26

When I look in the mirror, I see myself covered in paint.

Red 
Around my neck 
From when I was thirteen.

Pink 
Caressing my cheek 
From age sixteen.

Purple 
Blossoming in the crook 
Of my eighteen-year-old elbow.

Blue 
Slapped across my back 
From times I was too young to remember.

It sticks to my clothes.
It gets matted in my hair.

Green clumps 
Hang off my split ends, 
Going on six years old. 

Orange peels off my ankle 
In the shape of 
My middle school cast.

It stains my bed,
My walls,
The trunk of my car.

Yellow and gold cover every inch of that polyester interior.

I see the paint in 
Every. Single. Photo.

Elizabeth Terhorst

Windsor and Newtown Galeria Acrylic



27

The rainbow flashes 
Through my camera roll
Every time I open the damn app. 

I scrub.
And scrub.
And scrub.
And scrub.

I can never see past the paint.

When I look in the mirror, I see myself covered in paint.

But, I’m starting to think 
That’s how other people see themselves, too.

That’s why no one comments on the palettes I leave behind, the ones on every 
seat.