She was drawing with her Reeves HB sketch pencil in her 2010 Strathmore sketchbook that her grandparents had given her last Christmas. She had drawn his eyes with great precision, and the bump on his nose bent just right, his lips were textured as soft, giving one the desire to touch. His jawline created in such a handsomely manner of that of a prince, the angle of his face, the way his cheek curved, as his large inspiring eyes looked off in the distance. His dark black hair swayed, flowing in the wind, it was summer, her dreams were making their own memories and she was falling into a fantasy, thinking someday he would love her and when she looked up from her paper she realized!It was raining. She gave herself a moment to breath, not doubting the fact that she would never be good enough for anyone. She used to think she was just some messed up sketch that someone just left to die. Not ever being able to amount to a primary color like the world around her. She never felt like the right art medium, a pencil that could not be erased, dark charcoal that smeared on a white canvas, unable to vanish. She was fast to dry like acrylic, difficult to blend with another. She felt unbalanced, missing the highlight of herself. She was shaded to the point that she felt she would eventually disappear. But what she didn’t know, is that she was like pastel, glowing with creativity. What she didn’t know, was that she was like watercolor, well made with others. What she didn’t know is she was like colored pencils, slow to wear and break resistant. What she didn’t know is she was valuable, a work of art, something made and created with the sense of perfection letting her show her true colors with emotion. She was a work of art, something people would pay millions to see. She was a masterpiece, created by two hands with the best set of mediums as she blossomed like a flower and everywhere she went she left a design on the hearts of people's lives she had changed. She, was a work of art.