Run Down

I won't be defined by the boys I've dated, the people I've hurt, the failures I've hated.

My disasters, my heartbreaks, my dirty mistakes.

I've fallen too much, I'm battered and bruised, tired and done, ugly and used.

I remember, I forget; I usually regret.

AND YET.

My scars are beautiful, my dark circles wise, the stories I tell are worth your time.

They're inside, they're outside, they're my definition.

For what is a body, but a canvas for life?

This poem is about: 
Me

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