Some might be barely visible,
other’s worn like a hi-vis/hi-res, bold and bright and a bad shade of yellow.
Some might have lingered in your life for decades now,
fading gently into the background.
Other’s might be fresh, open, exposed wounds, still bleeding through that Teletubbies plaster you pasted onto it a few moments ago.
Some are tattoos that define you
and some are regrets in the form of a Ghostbusters logo on your butt
from one night when you were drunk in Harlem.
Whatever the case, wherever they’re from,
Whatever the case, wherever they’re from,
however you might have acquired them —
do not look at them in disgust.
Don’t look down at them, don’t cover them up, conceal them, hide them away.
What might sometimes seem broken
is actually just art, showcased in a newer form.
Like a mosaic, fragments and scraps and shards
sequenced in such a way that a masterpiece is born.
On their own, you might think that they’re the remnants
of something that was once whole.
But when you piece them together, hold them up to the sunlight, take a step back just to admire —
they glitter, they sparkle, they shine.
They make something so much bigger, so much brighter, so much braver.
They fit together so flawlessly, because they’re bits and pieces of you.