Maybe it's on Me.

Maybe it's on Me

to determine my own definition of beauty. 

Only maybe, though. 

I've been called the things no girls wants to reach her ears:

fat, too thin, ugly. unawanted. 

And maybe, only maybe, that's on me. 

But I've found that what's on me

is the most beautiful constellations 

of cells and flaws. 

The simple scratches that scarred aren't bad to look at, 

they're just reminders of a fall. 

The shitty tattoo on my thigh isn't a mistake, 

it's just a butterfly I wanted forever. 

The scrape on my knee isn't a blemish that can scab, 

it's just the simple fact of my skin wanted the carpet more than me. 

Flawlessness caused me so much pain, 

and now, 

I strive for the flawed. 

I want the nicks and bumps, 

the natural sleepy eyes and bedhead. 

There is nothing more awe inspiring than the natural world, 

yet we forget we naturally appeared this way. 

I'm meant to be thinner and shorter,

with freckles and green eyes and pouty lips and glasses and tangled hair. 

I'm meant to love myself, 

and that's my choice. 

It's no longer a maybe, 

it's just on me to look in a mirror, 

smile my crooked smile, 

and whisper "Flawless."