I Am Not A Season

I used to wake up and wish I were the gleam in the summer sun

radiant, luminous, beaming with life,

always so beautiful to all.

I used to wish that I could become

the autumn leaves on a tree,

gorgeous, vibrant, full of color,

mesmerizing even in death.

I used to cry alone in the crisp winter nights

awake from the thoughts in my head,

feeling each flaw pile into my veins

like snow to the blanketed streets.

I used to embrace the honey-kissed air

and welcome the warm coming spring,

wishing I were lush as a blooming rose,

delicate, full of allure.

But through each season and each written word,

every crossed out, ink-stained, and crumpled up page,

I've found something worth loving in my golden tan lines,

in my blemished, imperfect skin,

in the scars and stretch marks along my body,

like ocean ripples that flow through my soul.

In my middling height and small physique

that make me so one-of-a-kind.

I am not my flaws, no matter their words or the scars etched into me.

I am not a season, nor the sun, or the moon,

or a gleaming midnight star.

I am the proud glimmer in my parents' eyes

I am the smile upon my siblings' cheeks

I am the laugh in my best friend's voice

I am the poems, the lyrics I write

with hope to inspire

those who live in their flaws,

feeling as if there is no escape.

I may not be your “flawless,”

but my flaws are less than me.

It took me a while,

but now

I can wake up every morning

to that gold-painted sun

and smile as I breathe in the day.