Beautiful. That’s what they say.
But there is nothing beautiful about me.
I am not to be put on a shelf and admired.
I am not some fragile, stain-glass window.
I am my scars. I am the sleepless nights.
I am the suicidal thoughts at one am.
But I am also that voice that says “No live”
I learn from my mistakes.
I have earned my tiger strips.
I am a steel core of absolution.
Calling me simply beautiful, would be an insult.