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About This Poem
Beautiful
I look in the mirror
and know I should see beautiful,
but my beauty is covered by the red stains on my face.
I look down at my hands,
hoping they will tell me what caused this;
my blood stained hands display the battle I've been in.
Bruised knuckles,
black eyes,
broken bones.
This battle is daily,
unrelenting,
victories without peace.
I'm told I should be beautiful,
people see it in my eyes,
but this unending war is disgracing me.
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