Blank canvases that inhale and exhale

with motives to live.

That's all we are

painted by Biology

a gamble in the darkness of who wins the lottery of appeal.

 

Sometimes we are created

using the best paint brushes

a stunning color palette 

other times we are thrown together 

extemporaneous products of failure

slapped on with crippled fingers

that lack inspiration 

deprived of just the right shade of beauty. 

 

I am a sculpture of proof

a hurried project

nose recklessly placed on the center of my face

cheeks not rosy enough in the frigid winter

disadvantaged with an artist who must have mistaken pink for blue.

 

My body is an accident

worn with tears after erasing and retracing

time and time again. 

My past is scattered with ugly ripe bruises

maybe from tussling too roughly with life.

 

My soul

is the only thing

that is not of Biology's creation.

Soul is something I have dug deep into

with two frantic hands

before pulling out a heart beating gold

swollen with optimism

warm with love

spilling with kindness

stronger than beauty.

 

I am perfect

because my soul

is louder than my body.

I am beautiful

because never mind Biology's snide remarks

I am flawless

because despite my luck

I am a work of art.