Ugly

I am not pretty, beautiful, or clean.

I am all rough edges and battered limbs.

I am shredded heart sleeves,

And torn ligaments. 

I am bruised. 

I am broken. 

I am made of scar tissue,

And duct-taped parts,

To keep me whole. 

I am covered in battle scars on my skin,

In my brain,

And on my heart. 

My wings have been broken,

Mended,

And broken again. 

My feet are tattered and shredded,

Beyond recognition. 

My mind is an actual war zone

Complete with 

Battles,

Trenches, and

Endless infernos. 

But I am made of skin and pretty garments. 

Of shiny hair and contoured makeup. 

Of manicured nails,

And sparkly jewelry. 

All of this ugly

Is wrapped up tight

And under control. 

I am every woman you see on the street.

I am the pretty one. 

The ugly one. 

The homeless one. 

The drunk one. 

The sober one. 

The slut. 

The barista. 

The housekeeper. 

The retail worker. 

The stay at home mom. 

The corporate executive. 

I am every woman, and

We are at war.