What is art?
To each of us, art means a different thing, but all comes down to one thing. Beauty. Art is breathtakingly beautiful.
Below is my definition of art.
Art was my mother waking up one fine morning feeling my kicks inside her.
It was mother’s tummy becoming a bulge, a little world holding a star.
Nine months later I was born. My tiny feet so warm and soft. My little pink fingers pressed against her face and my lips wrapped around her nipple, as I suckled from it.
Art was my chest blooming into a pair of oranges, my waist narrowing like the road to heaven, and my hips turning me into an hourglass.
Art was the morning when I woke up to find my sheet soaked in design of red.
Art was me becoming a woman.
Art was the night I met him in the rain, our bodies clinging so close together I could feel his warm breaths on my neck. His lips finding mine. The wind dancing around us as raindrops trickled down our bodies.
Art was the first time we made out, on the couch, in the dark — the first time I knew a man’s touch can be magic turning a desert into an ocean, breaking into rivers and traveling down thighs.
Art was his hands moving up my body, grabbing my oranges. It was his tongue licking my ears and sliding down my spine.
Art was the blood beneath my skin rushing here and there as I felt him inside me, his thrust so hard that my fingers curled around his neck not wanting to let go. It was the tears that streamed down my face as we cuddled each other, our eyes saying the things our mouths could not say.
Art was the next morning, us sitting naked on the floor, my back resting on his chest, his chin and warm breaths on my neck as he placed an empty note between our widened legs and wrote another story about us.
Art was me knowing the power of my body, the power of a woman.
Art is me.
I am Art.
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