you trace your fingers over 

the tender grooves on my skin

and tell me to dust them with glitter

or call them tiger stripes

elegant wounds from battles 

lost and won

but i wish you would stop

before telling me that my scars

and my stretch marks

are beautiful and strong

i wish you would realize

that your words hurt more

than looking in the mirror

these days

and i wish more than anything

that you would realize that

these things you put on a pedestal

of honor are a natural part of my flesh

just as much a part of me

as my blistered knuckles

and my upturned nose and my

sky high cheekbones

and i don’t need every bone

and freckle on my skin to be beautiful

for me to be worth something to you

because beauty is overrated in the

most painful way and i wish on

every shooting star that calling everything

beautiful wasn’t the remedy for 

our intimate, whispered knowledge

that not everything holds beauty

but not everything has to because being

‘pretty’ isn’t the only thing that 

should make me valuable

so call the bumps 

and craters on my skin

artistic and lovely 

all you would like

but just know that

i won’t listen or care

because being appealing

to the oily bony hands and 

hungry eyes of those 

who are blind to

everything but allure

and celebrating my body’s

connate reaction to growth

doesn’t make me charming or brave

it just makes me human

can’t that be enough for you?