There are those who say that I am vain
For loving myself too much;
For adoring all my curves and edges
Every dimple and mark and such.
I tell them the story of how I gained my power
From the war I once waged on my skin
I show them my lesions, my battle scars,
I share with them every sin.
For there was a time, not long ago
When I was my own worst enemy
I hurt myself, my body and soul in ways
For which there was no remedy.
One day a girl looked up at me
And asked about my scars
She called me an angel fallen from heaven
As pretty as shooting stars.
In memory of that girl I stand,
As proud as an old oak tree
Because I have learned to love myself;
I have earned every part of me.
the Honest Poet 