my body is a canvas;
blank, untouched and pure, 
until you take your brush 
and the first stroke’s against my cheek, 
black and blue with the anger of yesterday.

my body is a canvas;
paints, oils, and flowers cover my torso, 
as do your hands as they 
constantly beat upon me with 
such bursts of colors.

my body is a canvas;
the darkness of my soul 
is splattered by the harshness
of your strokes, 
causing me to bleed out
in crimson reds.

my body is a canvas;
creations, victories, and mistakes 
are what I am made up of, 
my insecurities on my sleeve, 
the fear of others’ disapproval of me.

my body is a canvas;
i quake and tremble
just at the thought of 
finally being framed to a 
perfection I know I cannot achieve,
a perfection only 
conquered by loving myself.

my body is a canvas;
multiple pictures and memories
take over my consciousness, my soul, 
my heart,
my senses;

I am a canvas and yet I 
cannot be seen as art 
by my own eye.