Human Canvas

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Grooves along my skin,
Glisten in the warm day of spring.
Reminding me that everything on the human canvas demands to be seen.

From the goosebumps and hairs on my arms and legs,
To the weird spots and scratches scattered across my body:
I am aware of myself.

First instinct is to always,
Cover up,
Blend in,
Shave off,
Any suspecting natural aspects of ourselves,
That may reveal who we are.

Because who knows what our true selves may reveal about us?

That the bags under my eyes,
Are from the late nights I spend working on projects,
Usually amounting to nothing,
But satisfies the weird little creative in me.

That the very short finger nails,
Come from times where stress over took my mind,
And made the world a very nerve wracking place,
Hiding away any sign of hope my mind could find.

That the dryness of my skin,
Screams for moisturiser,
Even though I hit the epitome of my laziness,
Seemingly when I wake up and right before I go to bed.

That the potato-like tone of my body,
At times doesn’t motivate me,
To shape it in a more visually pleasing fashion,
All because the peanut butter Oreos have cornered me in the biscuit aisle.

And that the waves in my hair,
Love to stick outΒ in the most uneven state,
Framing my most natural and primitive form,
While creating a style all on their own.

All of these seem to be flaws of mine,
That go out of their way to expose me of all my truth,
That society tries to help me disguise,
And trim around the edges with their insistent little clippers.

When we clip,
Trim,
And pin back our insecurities one hair at a time,
We experience discomfort in the body and mind.

So no matter what we do,
And how much we attempt to prevent who we are meant to be,
Life will continue to be marked on our canvas,
As the human canvas will always demand to be seen.

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