My Body is a Canvas
My body is a canvas—weathered, worn, and wise, A living, breathing gallery beneath the open skies. Every line is intentional; every mark is true, I wear my history proudly, in black and grey and blue. The needle hums softly, like a truth being told, Etching heart into memory, steady and bold. It hurts but so did living; so did learning how to stay, So, I let pain become purpose, and ink show the way. Each tattoo is a chapter I refused to erase, Moments carved in flesh, that time could not replace. They map where I fell; where I learned how to stand, A guide of survival, drawn by my own hand. I ink over silence that once lived in my chest, Over nights I barely breathed; over wars I suppressed. What tried to destroy me now lives in design, Transformed into beauty; permanent and mine. These marks are not trends, or careless display, They’re vows to my younger self—I made it; I stayed. Every symbol a promise; every word a release, A visual prayer for strength; for healing, and peace. ...