I’m painting a picture of my mystique.
Of my crooked lines and strange physique.
I’m fulfilling my part of the self-love pledges.
And refusing to brush away my rough edges.
I’m showing the rewards of my foolish lies.
And proudly displaying the circles beneath my eyes.
My skin bears gifts from the morning sun.
And scars from childhood fun.
I’m painting a picture of nature’s grand.
I’m painting a portrait of me.
The resulting fruit is unable to mirror the tree.
I’m unable to crack the code that is me.
The square pegs are lined up in defiant rows.
And the lone vine will unorthodoxly grow.
We’re fighting the tides of unkind situation.
And feeling the pain of lost in translation.