She has been burnt and scarred.
From long days in purple mountain sun.
There are scars from battles I've won.
There are lines from where it has been marred.
I trace the precious lines of my many tattoos.
My ink, my story, my battle paint.
I suppose they don't really tell the story of a saint.
Then there are the bruises of beautiful blacks and blues.
Earned from long hard days at work and play.
She has stretched over heartbreaks and Thanksgiving dinners.
But these curves aren't for beginners.
Only the bold can travel on this carnal highway.
I have been both proud and ashamed of her.
She has been poked, prodded and grabbed.
She has been caressed and stabbed.
She isn't for some amateur.
I have hated and adored this temple I am in
She has been strong and weak.
She has been radiant and bleak.
But I am proud of this skin.