I jotted lines-
with a scarlet red ink
that marked, like a warning sign,
the precise spurs and valleys
on the landscape of my body,
whose meanders I abhorred
for I knew not how to love them.
I jotted until I was covered
in latitudes and longitudes;
the countours marked
on my hips, thighs and bosom
were a striking reminder
of their unpleasant shapelessness;
my arms were draped
in sleeves of red lines,
my fingers were not long enough
for the gloves I drew on them.
My feet were not dainty
and the haphazard red lines
only highlighted the fact;
the curves of my short, stubby legs
were not graceful in the least,
and the ugly red cascade
of lines down my calves were
a waterfall of deafening insults.
It took two hundred
and twenty seven lines
for the blueprint to be complete.
I then painted into the outlines
and after hours of shading,
merging and blending,
I no longer looked like
a map of landmarks of loathing,
I was a painting,
a work of art,
a masterpiece;
The red lines were visible no more.


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