My body is my only canvas, but my tools lack the love and bristles of a painter's brush. I am a masterpiece, an abstract of scars and freckled skin. I draw lines of blood along my arms, carve words into my thighs. I tell a story in broken lines because my voice and hands waiver. The picture I paint isn't pretty; it's coated in tears and shedded make-up, veins forever pumping blood down my cheeks. But the tale it tells is beyond skin deep, down to heart and lungs and moving limbs, the way we walk and the way we sing, how we love and are loved, despite titles and the color of our skin, the meals we've skipped or how many times we've made ourselves bleed. You may take the knife to your wrist, or pour the bleach down your throat, but you are no less beautiful than the models on TV who bear their bones and cover up the imperfections, the girls at lunch who eat whatever they want and still are as thin as the toothpicks that hold their sandwiches together, the bigger kids who learned to accept their bodies before you could ever accept yours, or the face in the mirror you've failed to associate with the one looking back.