Rosētum

Body.

As I enter into the faintly lit bathroom, I feel the cold sensation of the ceramic tiles that gives me goosebumps, faintly lit, is the bathroom.

A few sun rays seep through the blinds, filling up the cold bathroom with warmness, I undress, and I stare into the reflection in the mirror, that stares back at me too.

Vulnerability.

I look at my scars, the ones that are dry and old, the ones I used to renew with my own hands.

The sun shines through the blinds, perfectly highlighting my wounds and scars.

The acne, the scars, the contusions.

I stare at the daunting reflection of my blemished body, I almost stare away, ashamed.

Ashamed of the canvas that is my body.

Ashamed of the body that has endured the pain and suffering.

The body that has seen the story as a whole.

My body isn't deformed.

My body isn't ugly.

My body is a history, a history that if unveiled, would mean so much more than it looks.

My scars, my stories, each scar, each color in the canvas, each color that makes it what it is.

Each color that breathes life into it.

The colors, the colors, pretty though odd.

Pretty though don't mix.

The colors, even though not blending, even though stand apart, are the colors that make my canvas.

Are the colors that I may not like.

But are the colors that I own.

So I stare back at the reflection of my body, the one that might not be so beautiful, the one that might not seem so tempting.

I laugh as the sun luminates my eyes.

Transforming it from dark to the lightest shade of honey.

I untie my hair as the sun spreads it's light further into the bathroom.

No place for darkness to reside.

My body, may not be the canvas I wished for, but the canvas I belong to.

So messy, so desperately in need of repair, so so.. gracefully chaotic.