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I have always wished I was
more mysterious and demure,
but my face is an open book and
I laugh too loud to be pretty.

Every emotion I live moves
across my features like a portrait
in motion. You can count every heartbreak
I’ve had by the scars they all leave.

I think I am too alive, too intense,
and far too passionate to ever be
soft or feminine. I yell, I rage, I storm.
I can be cold and unfeeling,
I can be mean and ugly.

I’m not always attractive but
I find my own ways to be beautiful.
Yeah, there are a lot of things I would
like to be, but I’m done apologizing
for who I really am.



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