I know I'm not perfect.

 

Thick thighs and basic brown eyes,

Stretchmarks from growing too fast,

Calloused fingers from instruments, sports, painting,

drawing, writing, clumsiness, and burns,

Scars on my hands, my feet, my knees,

Acne on my face,

Cowlicks in my hair,

Crooked spine,

Curly toes from all the times I've broken them,

Big teeth with naturally yellow-spotted enamel,

Defective, asthmatic lungs,

Flat feet in a size 11 shoe.

 

I am not a specimen of perfect human health.

I am not a supermodel

(they have their own problems),

But I'm still beautiful.

 

I've made it through many hardships,

From sickness in the family to finances to death

of a loved one and nearly everything in between.

I've overcome bullies and therapists,

Rejection and insecurity,

Emotional trauma and physical limitations.

I've flown over every obstacle life has thrown at me,

And for everyone who thought they could push me around,

I've hit back harder than they ever could.

I beat them into the dust with my own strength of heart,

My will power,

My drive,

My ceaseless motivation.

I let my personal successes be the figurative spit in their faces.

 

I may not be perfect in appearance,

I may not be flawless in personality, attitude, or style,

But my scars make me beautiful.

 

And I won't ever let myself forget that.