Beauty

Forget the woman with the perfect hourglass figure, her perfectly sculpted legs gracefully carrying her bouncing breasts as they compliment her impossibly flat stomach. Don't even think about the way her honey blond curls frame her gorgeous face and always fall perfectly around her inquisitive blue eyes and full pink lips. Forget beauty, forget her, forget perfection.

I have discovered a better form of beauty. Forget perfection.

There will never be anything so beautiful as the scrapes lining my wrist right now. There will never be anything so perfect as they way they will soon heal and match the other two in their puckered white-pink whispers.

I love the hideous marks that cover my body, that criss-cross my breasts, that pattern my thighs, that marr my wrists, that hide on my legs, that scream their presence on my arms, and that engraved themselves into my heart.

My scars whisper to me at night, they tell the story of what happened. At least they think they do. Really, they just ask questions over and over again.

What happened?
What happened?
What happened?

No one pretends to understand. Just fill me up with the plasticy capsules. Always in some variation of blue and white. Except for the time they were red. We pretend that didn't happen.

We're always pretending. Pretending that I fell, pretending that the dog did it, pretending it was just an accident. Pretending that we don't know.

Do we know at all?

No

All I know is that I will never be beautiful, no matter how many scars, no matter how hungry. I am already perfect, I am perfectly destroyed, and I can never hope to be reassembled. All I can do is continue to break, and to revel in my scarred perfection.

(My journals always get a fair amount of readers, but it pisses me off when no one leaves any comments. Surely someone has an opinion!)