Her mouth is open but nothing is coming out. You can tell she was about to say something. The lips are apart and you can just see her teeth. Whatever it was, it got as far as her mouth and stopped there. Her skin is white and smeared with red, like someone wiped a hand across her face, or maybe she did it herself. We do not get to see her eyes. The painting cuts them off. All we get is the mouth and what is falling from it. One red drop hangs under her chin. It has not fallen yet. It is stretched thin and holding on by almost nothing. That drop is the whole painting for me. It is the word she did not say. It has been building for a long time, and now it is about to let go whether she wants it to or not. Why I made this: I think everybody has a sentence they never said. Maybe you wanted to tell someone you were not okay. Maybe you wanted to say they hurt you, or ask them to stay, or say sorry. You had the words ready and you opened your mouth. Then you closed it again and said something easier. I have done that more times than I can count. What I learned is the words do not go away when you swallow them. They stay in you and they get heavier. One day they come out anyway, and not always the way you wanted. I left her eyes out on purpose. If you could see them she would be one person. Without them she can be anybody. She can be whoever is looking at her. I painted the drop just before it falls because that is the moment I know best. You can still hold it in, but only for one more second. If you are carrying a sentence like that right now, this one is for you. Say it before it falls on its own.