I used to hate my freckles.
I remember using lemon juice to try and bleach them off my skin.
I read somewhere that it made freckles disappear.
It would run down my forehead and burn my eyes as it went.
All Because freckles weren’t pretty.
I fucking hate that word.
1. (of a person, especially a woman or child) attractive in a delicate way without being truly beautiful.
Isn’t that a fucking ridiculous word?
Why, when you could be a million other things would you choose to be pretty.
Who the fuck wants to be “delicate”. WE are not “Delicate"
We are malleable
Our bones break and heal over and over again.
Our skin splits and then sews itself back together.
Our hearts shatter like glass and reassemble
Our souls fight wars and
Our hands both build and destroy.
We are destruction and creation all at once.
I got over trying to be pretty when I realised
Id rather die than be known for such trivialities.
And I will be happy if every experience I have
writes itself on my face.
Painting stories across my skin.
Tattooing lessons across my back.
I will be blessed if every soul I love leaves scars in me.
Like Engraved names in the bark of an old oak tree.
I would run my hand over each name
the ones that have long since healed,
New bark growing over the once open wound.
The fresh ones that still weep,
leaving a sweet sting of nostalgia at the touch.
Im no longer afraid to be marked.
To be muddied or tainted or stained.
I’ll play connect the dots and paint a masterpiece from the marks that made me.
I’ll open up old wounds to remind myself of all the reasons they lay upon my skin.
I’ll be freckly, scarred, muddied
and an experience infested creature.
I will not be pretty.
I’ll fucking Haunt dreams with what it means to be alive.
#poetry #writting #artidoteentry #photography #selfportrait