I Am (Not) Flawed.


I have eczema. Crackling, crumbling, bleeding, tearing, painful, sores, flaking and peeling, dead-skin-under-my-nails eczema.

What have I been given? Sheets stained with blood, lotions piled up in the closet, a bagful of salt for salt baths, and a bill from worthless dermatologists.

Who could say that I am not flawed?


I have eczema. Stuck-in-crutches-for-a-week, crying-myself-to-sleep, hating-myself-for-being-so-selfish-and-cruel-instead-of-being-kind-to-others eczema.

What have I been given? Not perspective. Certainly perspective would create a better person, one who cares. Not kindness. I hurt others as much as I hurt myself.

Who could say that I am not flawed?


I have eczema. Red-lines-from-scratching-too-much, bits-of-skin-scatterd-on-the-floor-because-it-fell-out-of-my-fingernails, disgusting, cruel eczema.

What have I been given? Allergies: cats, milk, dogs, feathers, egg whites, penicillin, mold, and dust. Losing the things I love because when I go near them, I break out. I break out in withering, pitiful, unending pain. Pain that takes five minutes to create and five months to remove.

Who could say that I am not flawed?


Who looks past this? Who could love such a person, a drowning-in-self-sorrows and ungrateful-worthless-scummy-stupid sort of person? A cover-up-myself-as-much-as-possible-because-I-am-sick-of-the-pity-in-their-eyes opinionated person?

When I have built up a layer of lotion after lotion, Vaseline, steroid cream, and I cram pills given by my worthless dermatologist, who can see past that? I tell you now, surely my wall is too thick. One would scrape off my soul trying to dig through to find me underneath the flaws.




How can you say I am not flawed? No, not even that. How is it that you can see my flaws; you can accept my flaws; you can look at my pained and red and sore and itchy and terrible skin and face and condition; you look at me and accept me?

I thought I was unacceptable! Surely unacceptable! I am near complaining, my selfish-confused-misunderstanding-poorly-worded self! When my whole world screams "FLAW" in my face, how can I believe any different when you, singularly, skip past it?

Oh, you terrible, wonderful person, you! My world was safe! I was complete in my flaws, and that was the end of it! But now, a new opinion is in place, and I must rethink my life because of it.


I have eczema. Bitter, struggling, hard-to-deal-with eczema.

What have I been given? Someone who loves me throughout it. Someone who sees my struggle and doesn't pity me, but cries when I cry and laughs when I laugh. Someone who chides me for scratching when the rest of the world covered their eyes and accepted me as flawed.

No one can say that I am not flawed. I know this to be true.




You are the one who has made me feel flawless.



I figured I should make a side note to explain stuff since it's probably confusing.

So, yes, this poem is for the FLAWLESS Slam. But the idea behind it is that even when I recount my positives, even when I look at all the good things, my eczema is there. Even in my happiest moments, my eczema cannot just "go away", and so a poem about being flawless still has a flaw tied into it.

Even though there is a flaw, however, the flawnessness that exists is that there is something in me that people can love even through my flaw, and even if I think they're crazy for it. So the title connects both the idea of definitely being flawed, and subjectively being flawless (subjective because of parenthesis).

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