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I am a girl who has no flaws.

I distance myself a thousand seas away from being perfect, because I really am not.
But I don’t have imperfections either.

There is only one thing I know.

I have scars.
Discreet scars.

I hide them under the unseen shadows only I and God can see.

They’re like doors of memories and secrets about everything and every me. They were made of the lies and truths I verbalized, whether I should or shouldn’t have said them. I might have thrown words like knives out of my mouth without me knowing or told tales that made tears and snickers, regrettably or not, still I spoke; of all the wonderful places I went to with no regrets and the adventures that I had even if it was the best or worst of times; of those people I’ve met and knew, turning empty ‘nonships’ into I’m-gonna-shoot-anyone-who-says-you’re-ugly kind of friendships, leaving a stain in me.

Perhaps it was one of the reason why I am an introvert. I want to keep them safe. I can’t show them to anyone. It’d feel like ripping each of them open. I’d rather live at peace, not in pieces, over and over. Because once everyone knew, I know it would scare them away. I just know.

So I carry these scars everywhere I go.
I grew up collecting them. I live with them. I am not ashamed to be scarred.

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