My skin is a canvas of scars
of stretch marks and razor blades
of bites and tears at my outer skeleton
that reach into the bone.
Over time, my body has become an aged map,
scribbled and scratched upon and covered in
pencil bruisings and imperfect creases
which seem to cloud out all the possible destinations.
I am worn like an old sweater,
faded and shrunken and losing elasticity by the day
but I have something that beauty does not:
I am impure, corrupt and tainted by some definitions,
but by my own I am only experienced.
My body holds proof of my stories
in her perfect creases and scars.
I am not beautiful; I am more.