Art.

The strokes that shape her were not delicate.

They were not fluid.

They were not meant to be.

The strokes that shape her were not beautiful.

They were not intricate.

They were not careful.

The strokes that shape her were filled with the pain only heartbreak can bring.

They were sharp.

They were powerful.

She was a thunderstorm after the morning sun.

She was not beautiful.

But this is why people stared, admiring her frame.

The canvas burning the beholders eyes.

She may not be beautiful, 

But she is art.

She was fabricated to be looked at.