My ribs are a Ming dynasty vase

When I speak my reflection recites sonnets from Shakespeare—Rubens immortalizes my apple cheeks and round figure in hues of rubies and milk—starry night paints my eyes in every shade of Van Gohgs blues—and oh Michelangelo envisioned David when he carved the dips and valleys between my thighs—if my body is a cathedral I am the roof of the Sistine chapel—my hands will never stop roaming the canvas that is my body because I am a work of art that deserves to be loved