Crooked Beauty

I am crooked, my jagged vertebrae rolling

down my back  like worry stones,

the rounded edges blurring just under the skin.

 

And sometimes I can’t help but smooth

over the fabric of my worry, twist up the

coverlet to my chin and wait for time to

pass, like water over stones.

 

But I am more like refractions of light,

the kind that seeps under dress collars,

searching for salvation along the chalky lines

of my wrists and elbows--I am

perseverant hues of cornflower blue

and Crayola pink.

 

And I am more than all of my anxiety,

more than the broken slope of my back

and the space between my fingers, toes.

I am illuminated. I am cracked window

panels and glowing linoleum.

 

But more than anything, I am beautiful.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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