- the parallel holes in my ears from where i got them pierced when i was eight
- the branch i tore from a limb of my blueberry bush i got in the car to leave that life is the past (it is as dried and dead as the winters that have passed without me being home)
- my mother’s back from where she tore it working at age twenty-nine
- the scar on my knee cap from where i fell down a rabbit hole (imaginary) and had to claw my way back up
- the scars on my knuckle from a slip of the fingers while trying to carve a birthday present for my first love (i will still bleed for him)
- so many friendships documented in my journal with tear-stained pages
- the scraped two-inch portion of my dresser where in anger i threw a hairbrush the day i heard i had been assigned to a soccer team (they didn’t bully me but they didn’t love me either)
- my heart after you decided to take half
- and me. a person who wakes up everyday believing that stars are my cousins and that people are infintely good and bad is infinitely bad and there is no grey in this life (i don’t know if it is innocence or a coping mechanisim)
Perfectly Imperfect Me 