The painter took up her brush one day,

To draw her lover a woman.

Not just any woman;

The perfect woman.

The painter knew

She had flaws,

So perhaps the perfect woman

Would blind her lover.

The lover was overjoyed,

And fell in love with the painting.

The painter soon found herself

Being neglected for pastels.

The painter decided to make another woman.

This one was better than the first.

She hoped her lover

Would praise her for her skill.

Her lover

Abandoned the first painting for the second,

And the painter found herself

Alone again.

To keep her lover interested,

She painted painting after painting

Of woman after woman

For days upon days.

At last, too weary to continue,

The painter confronted her lover,

Demanding the reason

For his neglect.

The lover took one look at her and replied,

“Compared to these perfect beings,

How could one so bedraggled as yourself

Hope to compare?”

The painter was stung.

She rushed to a mirror

To see if her lover’s words

Were true.

They were.

No longer did any hint of beauty remain.

She had poured all her goodness

Into the women.

She returned to her lover

And pointed out that she had enough good qualities

To animate

Thirty women.

The lover replied that

One who gave them all away so freely

And to so many

Was worth nothing in the end.

Don’t pour your best qualities

Into being something you’re not

For when people see the real you,

There will be nothing left.