I brace my flawed physique with shame.
Some curves, some flab, and stretch-marks, gross.
I’m far from perfect; faults abound,
Each blemish dents my weary soul.
Some people mock me, laugh, and judge.
I dwell with them, is that their grudge?
Alas! I wish they knew my tale,
For they should hear this spiel of grit.
Each scar a prize; a battle won.
I’ll flaunt these; joyful, poised, and proud.
For praise, my heart shall no more crave,
I’m perfect every way, and brave!
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