On the Subject of Me

Whispers follow as I walk past and

wax poetic about my flaws as if they find them

perfect.

 

They are called flaws for a reason.

 

My hair is short and frizzy, loud like

the drum accompanying the flute solo I play and

I never did get the hang of dressing up but

I don’t have the time when I wake up so early to study.

My friends assure me that I’m not that fat but

they’re so skinny it seems insincere and sometimes I

look in the mirror and hate what I see so much.

From the cheeks that puff out like a fish and

the stretch marks that color the brown skin of my body and

the scars, the scars, they

mar me.

My nose has a bump like a cliff face and

my lungs are shit so I can’t run; I can barely walk.

I wheeze my way along to the library to read and

take part in adventures I could never hope to take part in, and

my glasses make me look like an owl, so

I stay up all night to write

 

Despite this-despite my flaws- I see

the potential that I carry in the smoothness of

my skin, the size of my big, big brown eyes and

lips that curve perfectly along teeth laden with metal.

My hair floats out in all its awful, shitty glory but

it frames my face well, and

my feet can carry me anywhere, so I don’t complain.

I’ve been told that I write well, and

I read so fast; I’m never satisfied with the endings so

I continue looking.

It suits me just fine. I have the potential to

do what I want and there is a beauty in that, a

perfection.

 

Despite my flaws I am flawless, and

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

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