My body is stitched together by the beauty of language, foolish hopes and dreams, and seventeen years of slight displacement.
My child-like finger are formed slightly smaller than expected, attempting to catch my tears as they fall from my tired eyes but failing each time.
My heart beats as if placed a few inches too far to the left, pounding against my rib-cage as a constant reminder of the sea of liquid that rushes through my body with each pump and ***** the size of my fist that sits like a ticking bomb.
My lungs are a little too large, taking in all the hope and inspiration that hangs in the air on a silent winter morning but always somehow finding enough space for a poisonous breath of hatred.
My eyes are a little too far apart, greedily marveling in the beauty of a night sky but failing to see the beauty in four limbs and a slightly-larger-than-average torso.
My reflection is a little too weak, burdened with the weight of aging eyes and a young mind and unable to hold the weight of a simple dream.
Seventeen years of displacement, yet it is now that I learn to take my first steps with my slight imperfections.