The stretch marks spiraling down my hips
and in between my thighs
look like scratches made by my demons
trying to claw out of me.
I promise that I’ve kept them inside of
me for so long that they will never escape,
and my future lover will never have
to deal with the problems that I hold within me.
The thunderstorms that fall from my eyes on rare occasions
leave deep ruts upon my face
so that my rivers could flow with ease.
I promise that you will not drown in these bodies of water
because they know how to hold back
when I am not alone.
The thoughts that the mirror implanted inside of my brain
were so impure that I had to repent my sins
when I walked into church.
I promise that these thoughts have left
along with the man that used to love me.
And I promise that I have learned that
only I can love myself like he said he did.
I painted myself,
but I am no artist.
My heart writes a symphony with the beats
of my anxiety, my fear, my hope,
but I am no musician.
I penned these words on paper,
but I am no writer.
My self-portrait is far from perfect,
for I am nothing close to a masterpiece.
But despite all of the flaws and **** ups,
I promise you that I am still beautiful.
Look at my stretch marks;
They are not the scratches of my demons,
but they are lightning bolts that Zeus himself
placed on me out of respect and love.
Look at my tears;
They are not a sign of weakness,
but a sign that I am alive,
with the feelings of sadness, compassion, and love.
Look at my self-loathing and loss of love;
They did not bring me down.
I picked myself up and rebuilt myself,
my foundation strong and reinforced.
Flaws make up my entire being,
but that does not make me less of a masterpiece.
I made my self-portrait,
and I am perfect.