Piece of Art

You see lumps of skin,

I see brilliant curves. 

You see bluish marks,

I see strokes of perfection. 

You see horrific scars,

I see experiences painted on 

You see bones and no flesh,

I see hard work and no rest.

You see fine lines that crinkle,

I see a beautifully aged masterpiece. 

You see a nest of bushy hair, 

I see black glitter of warmth and care.

You see me for my body,

I see myself as the sculpture I am.

You and me are both imperfect

And perfect we needn’t be nonetheless.

For all pieces of art are flawed,

Yet we adore them all. 

We love them for the truth they portray

Without putting them on weighing scales

 

So, if we can keep a canvas framed,

Why can’t we treat our bodies the same?