Black Ink 

Each brush stoke he makes is different then the first.

The way he fills me in Justifying all flaws.

The careful shaping of my right side matches my left, defining me.

He stares deep into my eyes to make sure he can capture the making of my soul.

He wants me....

Naturally beautiful.

He likes my curves.

The imperfections of each stretch mark leading to where life was once held.

He loves me.

His brush strokes me.
ink filled.

Painting the whole me.

Parts of me I knew sure were lost.

Covered.

His hands grabbing my chin to reposition my eyes to sky because, Queens should look to the heavens for which they were created. 

Shame of nothing.

Dose he need to see what innocence I have left?

Dose he yarn for what's underneath?

For now I will leave him a peace with he drawing.