through different eyes

Tonight i see my body as if through the eyes of an artist. If Picasso laid his eyes upon me he'd see softness of flesh and womanly curves. He'd see my full boobs and tanned skin covering muscle and a soft middle leading down my back to the rounded backside, which bears the grunt of epic portions of disdain from most women onto their own. He'd see the red flush as a mixture of paints against the softer beiges of the parts that have been left alone--allowed to be. Tonight I see this animal entity not as a question of beauty or worth, but simply as an aged living being that honorably fulfills its place in the ambivalence of existence.