untitled

her mind is a canvas
blank, ready to be filled
with colourful melodies
the latherings of praise
the intricate ranbow designs that she sees

blank, ready to be filled
with shadows of doubt
those underlying sneers
dark twists of low esteem
paired with beautiful images of those better


she grows up


her body is a canvas
puppy fat shed, innocence with it
she is plain, long hair, pretty face, skinny thighs
her body is a canvas
for fashion designers, makeup artists
hair dressers, tattoists
surgeons.

she is twisted.
she is tweaked.
into 'perfection'.
she is a barbie doll.
losing all identity.


what would have happened,
if she didn't think she had to be
flawless,
perfect,
a canvas?
what would have happened,
if she thought she could be,
mismatched,
imperfect,
individual?