I wasn’t beautiful in the sense of unblemished skin, or how my outfits weren’t put together; how I snorted when I laughed, or how I clumsily walked through life.
I collected my tears in jars, to be remembered but not dwelled on. I let the scars heal, and watch the new skin cover my self hatred. I opened the windows of my heart, and let joy seep through.
I’m slowly learning that beauty is found in the excitement in my eyes when I’m about to climb a roof. In the tips of my hair dyed teal, because I wanted it. In the slight tremble in my hands when I’m nervous, and the bruises on my knees from unknown adventures. In my voice when I’m talking to someone I love.
That was beauty. I had looked at self-love all wrong all these years.
It wasn’t how my collar bones showed, or how I painted my nails.
It was the inner beauty, that I found and could be proud of.