Beautiful is she who speaks.
Not with words scribbled out, 
Or with the dance in her feet. 
It's the beauty she finds in defeat.
When her walls have been shattered, her purity stolen, 
Bonds of forever once weak & now broken, 
Promises made but the words never spoken. 
That's when beautiful, is she.

When mascara ran deep through the pores of her skin,
The scars on her wrist to remind her what's been,  
When she blamed it on the mother who bore her of sin, 
Beautiful was she.
But it's not the pain that she hides in her script,
Or the voices she loathes when her smiley face flips,
Or her sneak dissin' friends who assumed she would quit, 
No, it is not them who speaks.

When she rips at the layers of "could not's" & "won'ts", 
Restraining her soul like a unisex coat, 
She litters the feathers of the "do's" & the "don'ts", 
But, beautiful is she.
When she rests on her flaws & proclaims them unique, 
She focuses strength where they told her she's weak, 
When her voice was once only the dance in her feet, 
And her words scribbled out on every notebook and sheet, 
She no longer compromises, but now confronts defeat because,
Beautiful is she who speaks. 


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