Women sit, or move to and fro—some old, some young;
The young are beautiful—but the old are more beautiful than the young.

Is this conscious state of existence really real?

or will my words and I soon drift into the
                infinite possibilities of my sweet,
                 oh, sweet Lucidity?

Life is strange
but I am stranger.

i have countless scars
on my skin from a
battle with depression
i almost lost. twice.

i have twelve scars on
my leg from a car
accident that saved
my life.

i have tracks of stretch
marks on my *******
and thighs from growing
up too fast

i have a million freckles
on my face spattered
from too much time
in the sun

i have curves that
show my womanhood
gifted to me by the
devil: puberty

i have so many
distinctions that make
me who I am. These are
my marks.