Into this skin I was born, broken I became.
I am not clay.
Should I now beg to be accepted
or present myself to the world for society to dictate?
How I should look or what I must wear.
I cannot be moulded or shaped.
Never ask me to paint over my mistakes.
But even broken pottery looks beautiful when you
put the pieces back together again.
Not that I think I am beautiful in any way.
For that is in the eye of the beholder, whose sight I cannot change.
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