#No Filter
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#NoFilter
I'd like to think of myself
as an artist
whose canvas is
her own body.
I've carved the
soft clay of my curves
into marble muscles
and only paint my face
with the finest acrylics
so people from all over the world
can marvel at my masterpiece.
Because they're not here to see
the process.
True art appreciators
scoff at thick brush strokes
and pencil lines
because it distracts from
the final product.
To know that I start
every day by drawing
Xs over my chest
isn't as artistic as
a blank canvas
textured with smiles.
My only muse is misery;
I'm a sunny landscape suffering from
crippling brush strokes of sadness.
I've painted smiles on my face
when alcohol would have done it better.
I've worshipped the statue
of myself,
years of running and lifting weights
making me look like
I'm paying tribute
to some goddess
hiding within my body
when the reality is
I'm running for my life.
I'm strong enough to
watch my temple walls crumble,
but too weak to do anything because
they don't teach you to
hold the world on your shoulders
in aerobics.
I've tried to see myself
as others see me.
But there's no
filter for happiness.
There's no version of
photoshop that can
blur out the tears
in my eyes,
nor any
trick of the light
to dim the funeral fire
burning my insides.
So
if I'm going to feel like everyday
I'm dressing for my funeral,
I want it to be open casket.