My art is a reflection of myself that I hide. My art is a reflection of the true me. My art says more about me than any words that could ever come out of my mouth. My art is a way for me to express what I don’t want to say. My art is what I hate about myself. My art is what I love about myself. My art is what I cannot say. My art tastes like me. I would be lifeless without my attempts at creation. Art is a validation of the self. I am selfish. Language is tainted by social expectations art can supercede that phony unspoken ideal. My art is an escape. My art makes me disappear. My art is pieces of me. My art is a temporary fill for emptiness. My art makes me full. My art is always an abstract attempt to recreate myself. If I ever succeed the art would be simultaneously the most beautifully ugly and disgusting thing that my eyes would bleed and at the sight of it.