#No Filter

Thu, 03/05/2015 - 23:43 -- i88



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.


if I'm going to feel like everyday

I'm dressing for my funeral,

 I want it to be open casket.

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