There she was, washed even paler in comparison to the stark black bedclothes she was curled up on, stripped of her painting clothes; a pair of worn, green cargo pants cut off mid-thigh and one of my ratty tee-shirts that had holes in the arm pits and shoulder. The dim light cast from the closet granted just enough visibility to make out the clean lines of pure, unpainted, snowy skin that had been protected by the tattered fabric, as well as the hills and valleys hidden from view with black satin and peek-a-boo lace on either side of her hips.
The smudges on her face read like war paint. Streaks of blue, red, and black smeared, arched across her cheek bones as if placed there purposefully, but really it was only by chance that they graced her skin. Only because she might have had an itch there and scratched absent mindedly. Orange smears on her chin placed with a probing finger that took up residence in the dimple there when she was deep in thought. Drips of purple spotted her feet and wound their way down and around her legs in long lines reminiscent of wisteria. Brush strokes were doodled on her thighs and knees when hands couldn’t stand to keep idle while she thought carefully about where to place them on the canvas. The finger tips and nail beds of the hands tuck under head were infinitely caked with color after color, staying a perpetual brown-y black.
Her hair was a wild mess beside and on top of her head, large chunks escaping from the claw clip that was a permanent fixture in her hair that struggled to tame her black locks, always hanging precariously at the nape of her neck but all the while keeping a miraculously strong hold on them.
There she is my rainbow speckled girl.
