I was never a doll. I’m covered with bruises and scars, both visible and emotional.

I’m covered in stories.

I spent my childhood tumbling around my neighborhood, shunning the Barbie dolls purchased for my amusement and education.

The dent in my knee-cap sends me back to the first day of first grade, when a sixth grader knocked me down in his haste to reach the restroom. The now-faint words etched into my wrist recall a time when I’d lost my faith in my parents, and ultimately, the rest of the world.

I spent my adolescence searching for any way to physically mask the terrible aching in my soul, even at the cost of my juvenile vanity/insecurity.

From angry cat swipes and overly scratched flea bites, to my bruised throat and carved flesh, I embrace them all. Even the ghost-scars from an abusive ex-boyfriend are beautiful in their perpetuity.

And so I will go on scarring my body, adding new blemishes to weep or laugh over.

My scars are lovely, even as they show the world my trials.

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