I am not a virgin, but I am still pure.

I am not a warrior, still, I'm fighting a war.

Ink against white paper, stained and beautiful.

I am an outsider but my heart is still full. 

I am the moss against the aspen's shake,

Hear the quiver, feel the shiver from the coming breeze.

The imperfections stay: standing, falling, fallen: 

The constant in-constants of the trees.

I need not be a virgin to have a clean soul.

I can be a flaw and I can be beautiful.

I am more than paper, a blank and empty page,

I'm the story within: the ink, blots, and stains. 

Fuck perfection.