I wanted to be blind.

I couldn’t bear to look at myself, my hideous body full of scars. Scars? No, I suppose I couldn’t consider them scars, not all of them. It was my art. The raised skin was pink and tough â€" beautiful. My fresh red scabs were painless until they came in contact with something…anything. It was my art â€" my flesh my canvas. What drove me to make a roadmap on my arms and thighs was more complex than anything my mind could ever conjure up.

But enough about that, let’s discuss my favorite subject, i.e. me. Don’t let my actions fool you, I accept myself from my wavy copper curls to my monstrous thighs, from my soft green eyes, to my hips the size of Texas. I had to accept myself for all that I was, and all that I wasn’t, no matter how much that girl in the mirror disagreed with my “Ideal Me.â€