My flesh is papyrus.
Not paper—no, that would burn too fast. I am papyrus: thick with story, frayed at the edges, yet holding every stroke of ink life dared to write on me. These lines—every crease, every fracture—they are not damage. They are poetry.

You see this scar here? It’s not shame. It’s a stanza.
It says: I have loved. Enough to be broken open.
It says: I have lived. Through storms that did not ask permission.
It says: I have been.
And now… I am trying to become.

You look for beauty in symmetry. In clean slates and flawless skin. But I have learned—
There is more than one way to be beautiful.
And these—these are they.

They turn slightly, letting the light catch parts of them once hidden.

The torn edges. The weary smile. The breath that sometimes shudders before it steadies.
Each one, a verse in a language I’m still learning to speak with grace.

So when you look at me, don’t ask what hurt me.
Ask how I rose.
Ask what it cost me to still say: I am trying.
And I am not done. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer