Queen Bey chants, “we flawless, ladies tell em,”

as I shake to the rhythm.

Preach!

I look down to my legs.

Wobbly, fleshy, muscular, supportive.

Flawed.

“Ladies tell em!”

My fingers reach up in empowerment.

Preach!

Spindly, dry, cracked, dependable.

Flawed.

I sit down.

My lungs are flawed, my chest is flawed, my face is flawed.

These ubiquitous flaws are the tint on the canvass.

The brushstroke formed from a palate with a taste

foreign to my sensitivities. 

You are this.

You are that.

Intelligent, silly, ugly, pretty, empathetic, rude, arrogant, kind.

Your truth is not my truth.

I am this and I am that.

I am Flawed.

But these flaws do not invalidate me.

I am locally flawed,

Universally unique.

Flaws are not my parameters, I am not contained.

I am Flawed.

That’s what makes me Flawless.