She is art. Her curves elegantly carved from a universal iron chisel. Her eyes were painted by the blue sky that swirled with puffy white clouds. Her cheekbones etched from the sharpest pencil and her smile stretched across the corners of the cleanest canvas. Her hair was woven connectively by the sun’s rays. Her heart was set beating by the loudest thunder. Her touch was wired by the strongest electromagnets and her presence was coated with the shimmery stars that spread infinitely.

Like all art, she is under appreciated. She is not told she is beautiful enough. She does not believe she is enough. All of her life, there was no one that ever permanently hung her on their wall. No one ever sits down to admire her and figure out who she truly is. Her body becomes her own canvas, constantly painting on new identities to cover up the old. She tries to conform to the wildest of unrealistic works, a shape only digital enhancement could improve. She believes she is a waste of work in a large gallery of so-called perfection.

Like all art, every aspect of it is absolutely beautiful. So is she. But she doesn’t believe it because she lives in a world that doesn’t let her.

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