Of course they do not have my lines
They have not lived my life
These lines are not theirs to have
I try to erase the lines
Like they are a mistake on a piece of paper that defines my very worth
But they are no error; they are of no fault
My lack of perfection does not lie in the lines
But instead lies in my persistent belief of a lie that states that they are not indeed as perfect and beautiful as a cloudy sky
Perfect, they are indeed perfect
Perfect in their Creator, in their creation
These are the lines of my Creator’s work in me
The proof of growth
Of a stretching beyond the limits of human skin and soul
The evidence of work, sweat, and pain
Of struggle and survival
Lines they are, scars they are
But imperfections they are not
For the term imperfection implies a mistake in the making
Or a mistake in the process
And there has been not one.