Why I Paint In The Nude
The canvas breathes beneath my hands,
a silent witness to the truth of skin,
where every stroke is a confession,
unveiled in hues of raw and trembling light.
Clothes are cages, seams too tight,
they whisper lies of modesty and shame,
but the body knows its own language,
a dialect of curves and shadows unchained.
I dip my brush in the color of dawn,
trace the rivers of veins, the valleys of bone,
for the nude is not naked—it is whole,
a map of all the places the soul has been.
The air hums against my bare shoulders,
a collaborator in this act of defiance,
as if the wind itself remembers
the first breath before the first stitch.
They ask why I shed the fabric,
as if truth could be measured in thread,
but the body is the first canvas,
and every scar a brushstroke of living.
When the last light fades from the easel,
I stand in the quiet of my own making,
a figure both artist and art,
painted free by the hands of the unafraid.
ASK JESSI 
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