My mother used to tell me that she could see right through me.

        Transparent.

That if I were to put up a wall, she could tear it down with ease.

          Effortless.

And each time those words came out of her mouth, I believed her.

                Naive.

So I danced around my words, leaving out those that weren’t beautiful.

          Judgemental.

The words I painted as ugly only ruined the canvas. 

      Unpleasant.

Though, the torn portrait was acceptable,

      Compliant

I soon began to run out of colors to cover the holes.

Hopeless.

I scrambled for alternative methods to hide my mistakes.

        Incorrigible.

There was no solution. The holes began to scream louder. 

Irritating. 

And when my mother turned the easel, she saw everything I didn’t say. 

      Liar.