The pen moves with my hand.
Swift, easy, full of effort.
I stare into her eyes -my eyes- and let my hand move.
I let my eyes skim her cheek bones, her lips, her chin
Sad, alone, confused.
The pen glides over the blank, white page, creating life, imitating life.
I look over, to the mirror that is set up next close by, staring at her face, the face of a stranger.
I know her, where she comes from and the way she grew up.
I know what she does after school, who se hangs out during.
But as I sit, drawing my self portrait of her, who she REALLY is, is unknown, even to me.