You want to believe it,
that I am a canvas,
a work of art,
that you must trace your fingers across my body,
So that I am worth something.
You want me to believe it, too.
You want me to see myself as a blank canvas,
a canvas that yearns to be art.
that cries for paint to smother it.
However, you do not realise,
I am already art.
I was art from the beginning.
I do not need your colourful embraces and delicate fingertips to realise that.
YOU ARE READING
Afternoon Thoughts
PoesiaHer head felt light in that moment, She felt as if was drunk on starlight, Her bare toes grazing dewy grass, Breathing in the sweet scent that was finally her.
