My legs are vast valleys,
Wheat fields under the flying sun.
Tall Ionic columns
Showing the marble of my rippled skin.
Mighty rivers of my veins,
Blue and swollen,
Are running across
With power and grace.
They are aching,
Echoing
In every part of my body,
In every cell.
I am a prison,
A soul confinement.
I am a stronghold,
A stable and a church.
My head is a volcano,
That once was so filled
With thoughts, emotions
And worries,
That it exploded
With the burning lava
Of my hair
Running down my spine.
I exist
Like a natural wonder
Of so many things
Being both wrong
And right.
Why do I have to be beautiful?
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