The Flaws

The flaws, The way that my shoulders are broader than they need to be, So that the small, tight tops never fit right, So that I look muscular, “Like a man,” my mother says, The way my nose is a little too big for my face, And my thighs are bigger than they need to be, Where my skin is darker in some places than others, How the acne scars cover my back, The way the discolored birthmark marked its place, In the dead centre of my back, Or how I have a small black mole on the bottom of my right foot, And one on my right, ring finger to match it, A mole so small, That you could mistake it for the numerous pen smudges on my hands, How my nails are uneven, And have little white marks on them, How the nails on my right hand are tinted yellow, How my chin wrinkles when I smile, And when I smile, I display my misshapen teeth, For the world to see, These I call flaws, The imperfections, What makes me different from the rest of them, No worries because, No one can even see past that, That’s what makes me different, The flaws