The crisscross on my wrist.
'You're ugly. You're fat.' they insist.
The scars keep piling on.
I'll never be a majestic swan.
Forced to be the ugly duckling.
While my conscious is chuckling.
Stuck in a marked for disposal body,
The lines are shoddy.
It's so hard to resist.
So the lines, old and new, must persist.
Comments about this poem (Scars by Hannah Eichenauer )
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