My hands, are orange with henna. My feet look up at me with blue-ink eyes. I am my own work of art. This is my last design. Reinvent, become something new. My words, my mouth, my tongue...my heart? I feel pain, little plain jane. I used to draw on my face with colored pencils, blinding myself with my own artificial beauty. Because I felt so plain. Clad in exotic outfits (top hats, hippy vests, tutus, and combat boots) I would feel no pain because I was above it. Back on earth, I can't do that. Now I wear no make up, and playing dress up is so last year, my raw emotions are no longer obvious to the world, or to me. Strange, because hair no longer covers my so-called expressive eyes. Instead, chopped short, my face is visible, but my eyes remain empty. I miss something, because I am no longer a work of art.