Our bodies are a canvas
Sculpting what we see
A constant work in progress
Molding to what people want us to be

We act as an easel
Allowing others to sketch their views
With a selection of their utensil
We become something for them to misuse

At night we contrast pictures
Intensifying shades we hold true
The image in the mirrors
Then well us what to do

Scarlet flowing down as arm
The primary colour we create
Only there to confirm
That critics love to berate