Pale, blemished, perfect?
Freckled, scarred, flawless?
My skin is stained with excess ink from all the times I created my idea of art.
My nails are broken and chipped from years of playing guitar.
But, who sets the standard anyway?
Without filters, I’m just me.
Who decides perfection?
The confidence from within.
I’m perfectly imperfect and that’s what I find hope in.