And so now I deface myself. My own head crushed and smeared, as though blue and red color softly bled through skin, and distorted the punched cheeks. I feel myself torn from the past. I search to set this free, but nothing comes. Only tear soaked and blurry paintings, Lying propped or layed on the cold studio floor. The children shall watch me on slides, and depict the pieces that dwelled in my soul, the ones drowned under a sea of pain. I made myself into a clay. This is what I have done- Dissolved my eyes, so I couldn't see the men who raped me. Sewn my mouth, because I couldn't scream no matter how hard I tried. Dragged my face, so I couldn't be identified (and)Finally deluded my body, so they couldn't touch me- This is my self-portrait (of)Francis Bacon