You stare in the mirror.
The white glow of the sun,
peaks through the windows as if they are a spotlight,
trying to spot out your flaws.
You lift up your shirt,
you see the crescents,
hills,
and valleys.
The surface of a geographical map that you have grown to learn.
But not to love.
You know exactly which parts dip and rise like a mountain chain.
But you have not grown for the want to climb them.
You trace your fingers along the soft terrain.
From the plateaus, all the way to the canyons.
Tears running down your sun-spotted face,
you flip through flimsy pages of models in a magazine.
You see the "perfection" you so desperately want.
You notice the cheekbones and the figure.
But little do you know,
even models,
they too have trouble climbing and accepting their own maps.
As a newborn,
you are a clear canvas.
No stretch marks.
No freckles.
No moles.
Nothing.
You aren't just a beautiful map,
but you are a canvas,
a masterpiece.
Worked on for years.
An artists hardest project.
But sure as hell their most beautiful.