• When I walk outside my home, or when I watch the TV,
    I see people, men, women, with perfect skin, perfect hair, perfection on their shells.
    These people have not lived.
    When I look at my hands and my face, I see scars and lines,
    lines where my smile has left an indentation in my face,
    my eyes hardened with the pains and joys I have felt in life.
    My scars say something, something loudly, something with pride,
    "I have lived."
    I am young, still new to this world, still learning the ropes, but I have grown wiser than some who are even ten years ahead of me.
    My scars, evidence of my play, signs that I get back up after hitting the ground,
    will never vanish, and I welcome that.
    I am open to showing people that I am not afraid.
    I take risks, I get hurt, but I am all the wiser for it.
    My skin is not perfect, my hair is not perfect, perfection does not teem from my soul.
    I have lived.
    I have lived long in these short years of my life.
    I have lived and gained small trophies for it.
    Small lines, paler than my skin already is, yelling out my life.
    One for every adventure I've had.
    And I plan to earn more.