My Body is a Canvas

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 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.


I’ve rewritten my body, where others took their claim,

Turned shame into story; turned wounds into flame.

No one gets to tell me what art should look like,

This skin is my truth, not theirs to critique.


Ink stitches together the girl I outgrew,

And the woman who rose when the damage was through.

From addiction to grief; from loss into light,

My body remembers the long, brutal fight.


So read me slowly, in symbols and shade,

In the scars turned to scripture; in the art that I made.

My skin speaks volumes my mouth never could,

I am living proof that pain can turn into good.


This canvas is breathing; still healing; still free,

Still adding new chapters of who I will be.

I am the story, the ink, and the scar,

The artist who chose to survive and go far.


©️ Wonderland Wanderess 2026

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