Beauty
These arms hold crimson droplets,
lightning bolts and jagged lines.
Though people laugh at scars so deep,
they, in spite of fate, are mine.
I see them before I go to sleep,
and when I am revived.
I’ve walked mountains in the skin I’m in,
and have managed to survive.
People gawk at scars so clear,
like it’s nothing they’ll ever see.
I pay them no attention, though.
They are beautiful to me.
My body has many stories that I hold all in my hands.
The world my question, stare, and laugh and shun,
but I don’t need them to understand.
This poem is about:
Me