our bodies are like art,
different sizes and shapes,
beautiful shades of color,
covered with chips and scratches,
of which makes us all unique,
but we cloak them from the world
like there’s something to be ashamed about,
because we don’t feel perfect.
art is not supposed to be perfect,
Da Vinici made mistakes on the Mona Lisa.
but we still admire it even 506 years later
because she’s different and beautiful.
why can’t we uncloak what we hide away from the world?
our pasts that have been plastered on to our bodies like erased sketches on a canvas
from a struggling artist.
we are the struggling artists, and the artwork combined into one being,
because eventually that struggling artist,
will make something beautiful,
it just takes time