Imperfection

I have never been what one would call a "heart-breaker."
I have been a heart-mender, a heart-lover, a heart-mother.
I have been afraid of my own heart's desires and wishes.

When I say I've never been a "heart-breaker" I mean to say:
I've never been pretty.
I've never been gorgeous.
I've never been drop-dead sexy.

I have body issues.
I have acne.
I have a mustache. I have chin hairs, so very unladylike.
I am overweight.
My smile is crooked and I show far too much gum for my taste.
My feet are flat and my chest is too voluminous.
I have a pancake ass and I don't shave my legs.
I could careless about wearing make-up, but feel the need to hide.

I am as imperfect as you can get, in my own opinions.

I am a worry-wart.
I am anxious.
I have all kinds of emotional problems;
I play the depression drums until I can't even move.
I dance myself through anxiety attacks and moments where I'm too scared.
I dream of days where I don't have to leave my house.
I berate myself for all my mistakes. I over-think. I over-drink and
over I go, over that edge, into something deeper than a sink.
I take all the cruel, off-handed, comments to heart and my wounds are raw.

But I'm an idealist. A word that seems so dirty in today's world.
I believe in the magic of just one kind sentence. One sweet gesture.
I believe in the power of a word, just one.
I believe that I could change the world, because all it takes is one voice.

I would rather be a heart-fixer, a heart-gatherer, a heart-whisperer
than a heart-breaker any day of the week.
Because who are we without our imperfections and our flaws?
Who are we without the things that made us into who we are?